


Good Decisions

by imalright



Series: papa john gautier [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, idiots to lovers, send your faves to therapy: the fic, someone get this man some sword hangers or SOMETHING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalright/pseuds/imalright
Summary: “Everything’s right here.” He tosses his phone on the kitchen island to his right and breezes past the kitchen to the center of his living room. “There’s a couch —” he points, “— a television —” he points again, “— and a light, what else do I need?”Annette scratches her chin and looks around the room, taking in his pure minimalist practicality before finally saying, “I don’t know, a personality?”Annette shares Felix's creepy murder den to an online forum. He doesn't like the comments.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: papa john gautier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723021
Comments: 350
Kudos: 650
Collections: Sylvix Squad Super Stories





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THANK U SUNNY FOR LETTING ME YELL IN YOUR DMS ABOUT THIS STUPID AU AND PROVIDING ME WITH VERY GOOD IDEAS ([read child support](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21363946/chapters/50888629))
> 
> This entire fic is based on [this screenshot from r/malelivingspace](https://twitter.com/redditspaces/status/1231663393007951878) that I sent to all my friends with the caption THIS IS SYLVIX

“Well,” Felix says, entirely nonplussed, “Here it is.”

Annette says nothing. He takes out his phone while she waits to say something that’s surely blindingly positive.

“Felix,” she says, and if Felix didn’t know better he’d think she was speaking cautiously, “Where’s, um, everything?”

“Hm?” Felix’s heart skips and he jerks his head up. Was he robbed? Was there a fire? “What are you talking about? Everything’s here.”

“Felix, it’s… there’s nothing here.”

“Everything’s right here.” He tosses his phone on the kitchen island to his right and breezes past the kitchen to the center of his living room. “There’s a couch —” he points, “— a television —” he points again, “— and a light, what else do I need?”

Annette scratches her chin and looks around the room, taking in his pure minimalist practicality before finally saying, “I don’t know, a personality?”

Felix chokes.

“Look!” She sweeps a hand toward the tall windows overlooking the city, “You have all of this. All of it! I thought, you know, Felix is finally buying his own place. Sure, it’s a loft condo! Sure it’s small! But it’s  _ Felix’s!” _ She presses a finger against her temple. “It’s  _ Felix’s, _ my beloved, best friend’s small loft condo, and his idea of decorating is hanging a light bulb from an extension cord.”

“That’s perfectly practical!”

“It’s perfectly  _ murdery!” _

“You’re paranoid.”

“I have a brain!” She throws her hands up. “And people skills. You don’t want to have people over?”

“If I have people over I have to wait for them to leave!” He points to his kitchen island. “That only seats two! It’s perfect!”

Annette looks at his kitchen island, distinctly lacking any seating, and looks back at him. “That doesn’t seat anybody,” she says.

“Perfect! We can eat on the couch.”

“Absolutely not,” Annette scoffs.

“Oh, now you’re too good to eat on the couch?”

“I’m too good to eat in a murder den.”

“It’s not a murder den!”

“I bet,” she pauses to think, “At least six people have been murdered in here.”

“They’d have to tell me that before I bought it,” he says.

“Not if the murderer was never caught.” She takes a deep breath. “Not if the murderer was  _ you!” _

“I’ve never murdered anyone!”

“Well you will now!”

“Look,” Felix sighs, “I don’t see what the problem is. We can have movie night at your apartment if you hate it so much.”

“No,” she says, “No, you don’t understand. You don’t — you know what, hold on, I have an idea.”

Felix watches, helpless, as Annette scrambles for his phone he left in the kitchen and climbs the ladder up to the loft space. He hears a groan.

“Seriously, Felix? You just put your mattress on the floor?”

“Where else would I put it?” he snaps back.

“I don’t know, on a frame?!”

“I don’t need a frame,” he mumbles.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you, I’m all the way up here in your murder loft — holy  _ fuck, _ Felix, you brought your swords?!”

He rolls his eyes out of sight. “Of course I brought my swords.”

“You brought your  _ swords, _ and you didn’t bring a  _ coffee table?” _

“Why would I need a coffee table?!”

“To put your coffee on!”

Felix decides not to point out he has two perfectly good hands and a whole expanse of perfectly good floor. “What are you even doing up there?”

“I’m witnessing a future murder site,” she says. Her head peeks over the half wall and she leans on her elbows, his phone in front of her. “Move or you’ll be in the picture!”

Felix obediently moves and stands, nice and secure, under the loft space and far from any sort of camera.

He waits kind of awhile, possibly forever without the distraction of the entire internet. It speaks volumes to his unquestionable, unwavering trust in Annette that he lets her take her time with his phone while in his bedroom. He tosses a bag of popcorn in the microwave. She emerges long after he’s transferred said bag of popcorn to a cheap plastic bowl. She wrinkles her nose.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s ugly,” she says.

“It’s a bowl.”

“It’s an ugly bowl.”

He grunts.

“Felix, can I ask you something else?”

He shrugs.

“Why did you get a condo where you have to climb a ladder to get to your bed?”

He eyes the ladder. Looks fine to him. “Why not?”

“What if you — hm,” she pauses, “You know what? Nevermind.”

He shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and holds his other hand out for his phone. Annette rolls her eyes.

“You’re disgusting,” she says.

“Hm,” he says thoughtfully. “What were you doing up there for so long?”

A look flashes across her face that Felix would describe as her  _ making trouble _ face. He narrows his eyes. Her grin curls.

“I asked for some backup,” she says proudly. Her stance goes wide. Her hands go to her hips. “Before the end of the night you’ll have to admit I’m right.”

“About what?”

“Your ugly condo. Where people have been murdered.”

Felix smirks. Inspiration has struck. “Be pretty cool if someone was murdered. Do you think their ghost is still around?”

Annette’s face pales and she stomps her foot. “Felix! No!”

He thrusts his ugly bowl of popcorn into Annette’s arms and leads the way to his creepy, creepy couch. “You know, ghosts  _ love _ horror movies.”

“They do not!” she shouts, “Ghosts aren’t real!”

“Aren’t they?”

There’s a power struggle for the controller. Felix loses to Annette’s dirty tricks — he’s  _ not _ ticklish — and gets physically kicked off his own couch. He’s forced to admit defeat on his cold concrete floor and stares forlornly at the FeyStation menu Annette still has trouble navigating.

“To the right — no, Annette, that’s left, it’s — augh!” He sits up and glares at her. “Just let me pull it up!”

“I know how to open Netteflix!”

Felix suffers for far too long through Annette’s  _ “Doesn’t even have a touchscreen!” _ and  _ “These controls are completely counterintuitive.”  _ and  _ “Why won’t you just let me bring my Witch!” _ until she finally opens the stupid app, chooses some romcom he definitely hates, and allows him back on his couch. That he owns. In his condo. That he also owns, and not her.

“Seriously?” he mutters at the movie they’ve watched together at least six times, “What kind of casting is this? Ferdinand von  _ fucking _ Aegir?”

“He looks better after the makeover,” Annette says.

There’s no arguing that. The rivals become lovers become happily-ever-afters and Felix is much too strong, much too stoic, far too in control of his own emotions to cry, and if Annette sees any tears running down his face it’s because she’s projecting and that’s that.

“That could be you,” she chokes out as the credits roll across the scene, “You could be the weird emo boy falling in love with a ginger ray of sunshine.”

Felix fixes Annette with a dead stare and watches as her face slowly goes from lightly flushed to bright, fluorescent pink.

_ “I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT!” _

“Uh huh.”

_ “SHUT UP, FELIX!” _

“I’ll get on that.”

_ “OH, YOU’RE THE WORST!” _

She kicks him.

“Ow.”

“Ugh! You know what?” She sticks her hand out expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

He rolls his eyes and slaps it into her hand. She cheers. Then she pauses. Then she sighs.

“What.”

“You only got one response! That’s not fair!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She thrusts his phone back into his hands with a pout. He looks.

On his screen is a single photo of his apartment taken from the loft; it’s bright, clean, and it sure is his condo. He scrolls down.

> Nice view  
>  _(27 minutes ago)_

“Told you it’s fine.”

“It’s not!”

“This guy has good taste.”

_ “He does not!” _

Felix smirks. “You can take more pictures if you want.”

Annette ignores him and selects a second romcom that he hates.

“That sucked,” Felix says with a dry face and no pillow in his arms. He sniffles because he’s suddenly developing allergies. He has no composure to crumble when Annette throws herself into his lap.

_ “Felix! How could you be so cold!” _ she wails.

“We’re not watching another one of these,” he decides. Because he hates them.

“Oh, you’re the  _ worst.” _

“Give me the controller.”

“No!” She yanks it away and out of reach. “You’ll choose something weird!”

“I will not!”

“Yes you will! You’ll put on Akira again!”

“Akira’s a classic!”

“So’s Spirited Away, but you won’t choose that one!”

_ “No, because there’s nowhere to fucking stream it!” _

Annette sticks out her tongue. Felix sticks his out back.

“Fine,” she says, “Movie choosing privileges, in exchange for your phone.”

Felix would have given her his phone anyway. It’s not like he gives a shit.

“Fine.”

They perform the exchange; Felix cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is Felix’s first law of dealing with Annette.

“Holy shit. Felix.” Annette raises her eyes from his phone. The screen reflects like sparkling stars. “This is incredible.”

He gestures to the TV displaying a summary for a movie Annette will definitely hate. “I know.”

“No. You’re so rude. Look.”

Annette shoves the phone back into his hand and steals the controller in one move. He’s gotta hand it to her. But he doesn’t, and she takes it, and he looks at his phone.

> Hey bro, are you ok?   
>  _ (18 minutes ago) _
> 
> I think a few more extension cords hanging from the ceiling with one (1) lightbulb would really tie things together   
>  _ (1 hour ago) _
> 
> Have you considered curtains?  
>  _(45 minutes ago)_

Felix shrugs. “So?”

“Did you see it?”

“Did I see what?”

She takes his phone back and does not return the controller. She scrolls and scrolls and scrolls and, finally, returns his phone. “This one,” she says.

He looks.

> I say get rid of the furniture, hang some tarps, and start murdering people. Seems like a cool quiet chill place to get some murderin’ done!  
>  _(7 minutes ago)_

He stares.

“This is stupid,” he says.

“You’re only saying that because they’re right.”

“No, I’m saying that because they’re stupid.”

“Hm,” Annette pretends to think, “Sounds like someone else I know.”

He narrows his eyes at her. She conveniently doesn’t look in his direction. Fine. Whatever. He’ll show this guy.

He hits reply.

> Sounds great. Come over.  
>  _(0 seconds ago)_

“You can’t just say things like that, you weirdo,” Annette says over his shoulder. Fuck, she’s sneaky.

“Watch me.”

“Ugh. I just did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna write this as a goofy one-shot but then the world went to hell and I thought to myself, you know what? You know what we all need? A shitpost
> 
> This won’t be super long. Anyway Sylvain pops in next chapter so like. Don't worry too much
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	2. Chapter 2

Unbeknownst to Sylvain, several days and nights have passed since Felix and Annette’s most recent movie night. Unbeknownst to Sylvain, their next movie night is fast approaching. Unbeknownst to Sylvain, Felix doesn’t really feel like cooking.

He makes his way up the stairs of this swanky building, buzzes in, rides the elevator, and makes it all the way to unit #420 without a single degree of tilt on his perfectly crafted stack of pizzas, breads, and sodas. They must be having one hell of a party. Maybe he’ll swing by after he closes up.

He knocks.

_ “Felix!” _ an unknown feminine voice shouts from the other side,  _ “Someone’s knocking on the door!” _

Maybe it’s not a party at all. Maybe it’s a really big family with twin teenage boys and a father named Felix. Maybe they’re incredibly, filthy rich just like his father. Maybe, when their father dies, they’ll inherit a shitton of money and deliver pizza for the hell of it, just like him.

The door opens and that possibility falls through the floor along with the world he once knew.

Standing tall, barely reaching Sylvain’s nose, is one sexy drowned cat of a man with eye bags for miles and cheekbones that could kill. He’s  _ totally _ coming back for this party.

“Delivery,” he says with his most charming smile. The one that’s a little soft. The one that gets him out of Ingrid’s lectures. 

Oh yeah, he’s still got it. His grin widens and he watches Felix the Drowned Cat Man fluster himself over his words and turn bright fucking pink. He wonders if his freckles are visible in the low light. He hopes so.

“Uh,” Felix says intelligently.

Sylvain could wait all night. It’s not like he’ll get fired.

“Yeah, uh, thanks. I, um,” Felix holds both his arms out. Sylvain, the smooth motherfucker that he is, hands over the man’s feast and makes absolutely sure to take his time and drag his fingers across the backs of his hands.

“Oh, why are your hands so cold?” he asks with faux concern.

_ “He’s just like that!” _ the unknown feminine voice shouts from out of sight. Right, an unknown feminine voice.

“Your girlfriend?” he asks, not at all sly.

“What?” The unknown feminine voice gags from somewhere unseen. Felix shakes his head. “No.”

“I  _ am _ his type, though.” The unknown feminine voice materializes from around a corner; turns out it belongs to a cute short redhead. When they lock eyes a smirk curls across her face. “He  _ loves _ cute gingers.”

Oh,  _ hell _ yeah. This is going great. Sylvain’s soft, smooth smile turns smug and he turns his attention back to Felix. “Oh yeah?”

The guy looks mortified. His eyes dart between the short redhead and Sylvain himself. “Hang on,” he mutters, “Let me get your tip.”

Sylvain briefly entertains the fantasy of staying, blowing off the entire evening, spending the night and… what? Getting on Ingrid’s bad side? He throws that fantasy in the garbage. “You got it,” he says instead.

Felix nods jerkily and retreats back into his unit. Sylvain stands in the doorway and waits.

“Oh, just come inside,” short redhead sighs. He turns his charms to her. She rolls her eyes. “He might be a minute. He’s an idiot.”

He shrugs and follows directions.

“Did you all just move in or something?” he asks, eyeing the near-empty kitchen.

“He moved in, I don’t know, a few weeks ago?” she rolls her eyes. “I keep telling him it’s creepy in here — come on, let me show you the living room where he definitely murders people.”

Sylvain snorts and follows. It’s a short few steps past the entry and into an open space with enormously tall walls, matching enormously tall windows, and —

“Is that a lightbulb screwed into an extension cord?” Sylvain asks, squinting at the single source of light in the room. Short Redhead scoffs.

“Yeah. It is.”

“...Huh.”

His eyes wander down to the rug-less concrete floor and small couch. Something just out of memory is pulling at him and he can’t quite place it. He’s never been here before; he’d remember someone living in unit #420.

“This looks familiar,” he says, his question unspoken. Short redhead raises her brows.

“I posted a picture of his murder den online and it got passed around pretty far,” she says, “Maybe you saw that?”

...Ah. That.

Sylvain weighs his sense of self preservation with the hot wet cat murderer and how fun it would be to pull his hair a bit. 

_ It would be pretty fun, _ he thinks to himself.

_ It would end in my murder, _ he thinks to himself in a slightly more serious tone.

_ It might be worth it. _

_ Okay but like, what if it’s not? _

_ Hmm… I don’t know. _

A shuffling comes from the loft. He has to make a choice quickly.

He chooses life.

“I, uh, I actually can’t stick around that long.” Sylvain’s game is slipping. Keep it up, Gautier! “I’ve got a few more deliveries to make before I swing back to the shop. Uh, thanks for your order —”

“I’m coming, just hang on,” Felix’s sexy wet cat voice yells from overhead. Sylvain’s head snaps up to the guy’s fucking  _ loft _ and he counts the moments until his death because he’s frozen in place while his entire brain focuses on his skintight jeggings and the way they pull and strain while he climbs down a ladder.

He chooses de — no. No. He’s not doing that.

“Here.” Felix shoves some folded up bills in his hand. He recognizes the outer bill as a crisp twenty. He pockets it. “Now go. Go do your job.”

Damn. Cold. “Great, uh, thanks. Bye!”

He’s halfway through the front door when Felix shouts one more thing.

“You’re single, right?”

Sylvain decides he can’t lie to a murderer.

“Yeah, bye!”

* * *

Sylvain delivers more pizzas. Makes more money. Struts through the double doors of his very own pizza joint and smiles lazily at his best girl, Ingrid. She scowls back.

“And how have things been here?” he asks. 

“I’m almost done,” she says. Then she throws a wet rag at him. “Get the counters.”

He gets those counters. He gets them good. They’re so fucking clean when he’s finished wiping them down with a rag soaked in a cleaning solution mixed exactly to FDA standard. 

“Done,” he announces. Ingrid glances at his drying counters.

“I don’t know why you’re looking for my approval,” she says dryly, “You literally own the place.”

Hah, she’s right. He does.

“So are you saying I’m  _ not _ fired?” He bats his eyelashes for effect.

“I don’t know, are you?”

“Who knows…”

She doesn’t respond. Unlike him, Ingrid knows when to drop a joke.

“Tip time,” she says instead. 

His favorite time of day. He retrieves the cash from his tip pocket and splits it with Ingrid. She sorts her stack out so fucking fast, and then she takes what he hasn’t sorted (most of it) and sorts that stack out so fucking fast, too. 

“Eugh, Sylvain,” she chokes out. He looks up from the stack of ones he’s counted differently at least three times, “Did someone give you their number?!”

“Hm?” Sure enough, on a fresh, crisp twenty is a fresh, crisp ten digit number that mysteriously starts with the same three numbers as his area code. “Looks like it,” he says.

“You can’t keep flirting with your customers,” she snaps, “This isn’t a porno, Sylvain. What’ll you do if you can’t fire the driver for harassing your customers if they’re  _ your _ customers?”

“Hey! I didn’t flirt with anyone!” he lies, “Whoever this is must’ve been awed by my good looks, that’s all.”

She does not believe him.

“But seriously, I have no idea who this is.”

“Uh huh.” She pushes the bill into his chest. “I don’t want it.”

He gladly takes the twenty and brings it up closer to his face and beholds it, gently, tenderly, like it’s something to be cherished. The number looks neat and orderly in the beginning — he might even say confident! — and becomes scrawled and hurried at the end. Whoever wrote this down must’ve hesitated. Or panicked. Or both.

“Hm,” he says.

“I don’t care,” Ingrid says.

“You know what I’m gonna do?”

“I don’t want to.”

“...I’m gonna call it.”

“Far away from me, I hope,” she mutters. He’s far too busy typing the number into his phone to respond. “Sylvain…”

“Shhh!” he shhhs, “It’s ringing!”

Only the sounds of the forced air cooling system and Sylvain’s ringing phone remain. Ingrid watches, silent, observing, waiting just as eagerly as Sylvain.

The ringing stops.

_ “Hello?!” _

An image immediately pops into Sylvain’s head. Unsociable, judging by the shock. Masculine, judging by the confidence. Wet and catlike, judging by the tone.

Sylvain’s mouth pops into a perfect little  _ o! _

“Ingrid,” he hisses far, far away from the microphone,  _ “It’s the murderer!” _

Ingrid does not care that it’s the murderer. 

_ “Hello?!?” _

“Heyyyy! Sorry, I think I cut out there for a sec.” Sylvain laughs easily at his own coverup. Ingrid smacks her forehead. “This is, uhh, Felix, yeah?”

A pause.

_ “...Yeah?” _

“Great! This is the pizza guy.”

Ingrid smacks her forehead again, and much harder.

_ “Oh,” _ Felix says,  _ “Okay.” _

“Alright! Okay!” This conversation is going great. “So! Now you have my number.”

A pause.

_ “Yeah.” _

“Yeah.”

A pause.

_ “Do you normally, like, call? Do you not know how to text?” _

Ingrid actually laughs out loud at that.

“Get some game, Sylvain,” she chokes out. He punches her shoulder but really it’s more of a loving tap. A fist bump against her body instead of her fist.

_ “I like whoever that is,” _ Felix says. Sylvain hears Short Redhead snort in the background.

“Yeah, Ingrid’s cool as fuck,” he says. The combination smug and soft smile from Ingrid is totally worth it. “Uh, yeah. Text me, I guess.”

_ “Yeah. Later.” _

“Later!”

Felix hangs up first. Damn.

“So,” Ingrid says, “Who’s the murderer?”

“Oh! Right!” Sylvain pulls up his phone’s browser and scrolls waayyyy back in his history to find the forum post. “It’s this guy.”

Her eyebrows slowly raise, bit by bit, closer and closer to her hairline, as she takes in every terrible detail the photo has to offer.

“What the hell?”

“Right?! Who lives like that?”

“And you called him? Gave him your number? Just like that?”

Sylvain chooses not to point out he had no idea whose number that was. “He’s hot,” he explains.

Ingrid, who has given up on acting as Sylvain’s self preservation long ago, just sighs.

“You’re gonna get murdered,” she says.

Sylvain nods. “Yeah.”

“And I’m not paying for your funeral.

Sylvain nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay, well, as long as you know what you’re doing.”

Sylvain nods. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self preservation? i don't know her
> 
> i hope you're keeping safe during this whole (hand wavey thing) situation. worldwide pandemic, amirite? i'm self employed and never leave my house normally and apparently that's considered "quarantine" and "social distancing" so i'm doing great
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things get a lil spicy

So, it has begun.

The first text to precede the rest of Felix’s fucked up life.

> **Hot Pizza Guy:** heyyy

“Wow, three ys,” Annette observes over his shoulder, “That means he’s interested.”

“What the fuck do I even say to that,” Felix mumbles.

“Oh, easy! Use four ys.”

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon.”

Felix’s phone buzzes in his hands. Annette takes it from him and bursts into laughter. Then she starts typing.

“You’d better not be sending him four ys,” he says.

“No.” She shoves his phone back at him. “Much better.”

With a terrible sinking feeling in his gut, he looks.

> **Hot Pizza Guy:** heyyy
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** what’s up
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** wyd
> 
> **Me:** you have so much game
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** i kno, i’m smooth as hell
> 
> **Me:** hahahahahaha

He sighs, long and suffering, and types.

> **Me:** sorry, annette took my phone
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** lol
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** she’s one hell of a wingman
> 
> **Me:** i guess

“So that’s how it’s gonna go,” Annette says.

“What the hell does that mean?” Felix snaps back.

“This is so boring.”

“Well what am I  _ supposed _ to talk about?”

Annette throws her hands in the air and groans. “Literally anything other than how boring you both are. The movies we just watched! Cats you like! I don’t know!”

“People don’t talk about those things.”

“Yes, Felix, they do.”

To Felix’s complete shock, they apparently actually do.

> **Hot Pizza Guy:** what kinda movies do u watch?

Felix stares at this text. Innocuous? Sure. Boring? Definitely. If there’s an ulterior motive in there it’s probably to get in his pants and that’s like, the whole point of this thing, so he doesn’t care.

So he prepares himself for the most boring conversation he’ll ever fucking have.

> **Me:** idk. good ones i guess
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** but like, what qualifies as good?
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** haha i bet u like chick flicks
> 
> **Me:** NO
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** no shame man, i love me a good romcom
> 
> **Me:** ugh, typical
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** soooooo…..?

Ugh.

> **Me:** idk anime i guess
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** oh that’s like cartoons right
> 
> **Me:** no
> 
> **Me:** everything that’s animated isn’t a cartoon
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** o what is it then
> 
> **Me:** nevermind
> 
> **Me:** i like horror
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** oo scary
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** will you hold my hand if i get scared

Felix Fraldarius, who is trying to fuck, who has fucked before, and who will fuck again, throws his phone facedown on his couch in humiliation. After taking a moment to regain his bearings he takes a screenshot.

> **Me:** [image_37.jpg]
> 
> **Me:** what the fuck is this shit
> 
> **Annie:** aww that’s cute :^)
> 
> **Me:** cute
> 
> **Annie:** yea! it’s cute!
> 
> **Me:** we have real fuckin different definitions of cute
> 
> **Annie:** i still think he’s up to no good but that’s cute
> 
> **Me:** of course he’s up to no good. i’m also up to no good
> 
> **Annie:** EW DON’T TELL ME THAT!!!
> 
> **Me:** you brought it up
> 
> **Annie:** UGH TO TALK TO UR BOYFRIEND
> 
> **Me:** not my boyfriend
> 
> **Annie:** UH HUH TELL ME THAT AFTER UR FIRST DATE

None of this is going in Felix’s favor. 

He looks at Hot Pizza Guy’s most recent message again and scoffs.

Fine. He can flirt. That is a thing he can do.

He types.

> **Me:** sure

Yeah, he’s still got it.

* * *

It only takes one more day of this stupid bullshit before Felix snaps.

Sylvain says the most embarrassing shit. Give me a hug this, I like talking to you that, he can only take so much. He’s only a man.

So, with Annette’s help, he crafts the perfect message.

> **Me:** so do you wanna hang out or what

And then he puts his phone away and spends the day distracting himself. He makes cool videos about swords, he watches cat videos, he sends cat videos to Annette, he convinces himself that what this guy thinks of him doesn’t fucking matter and like, what’s the worst that could happen? This loser thinks he’s desperate? Fuck him. Fuck that guy. He doesn’t care.

He definitely doesn’t care when he checks his phone and sees the guy’s response.

> **Hot Pizza Guy:** ohh haha i’m kinda busy? maybe later

Okay. Fuck that.

He invites Annette over for an impromptu movie night. They  _ don’t _ order pizza.

“That’s not a rejection, Felix,” she tells him after hesitantly reading through their messages. “Maybe he really is busy.”

“I didn’t tell him a time or day,” Felix says.

She looks at their messages again. “So you didn’t.”

“He’s dicking me around,” Felix decides, “Fuck him. I don’t care.”

“Felix, you definitely care.”

“No the fuck I don’t.”

“It’s okay to care.”

“I don’t play these shitty games, Annette,” Felix snaps, “If he’s not gonna just reject me outright —”

“Oh no, would you look at that,” Annette says dryly, “I accidentally pressed call.”

_ “No the fuck you did not.” _

“Oopsie!” she throws his phone at his chest, “My mistake! Silly me!”

“Annette, I swear to the fucking —”

_ “Aw, look who doesn’t know how to text now!” _

Felix scrambles to grab his phone. Fuck. If he hangs up he’ll look like an idiot. Shit. Fuck.

“Fuck you,” he says very elegantly. The hot pizza guy’s laugh rings through his earpiece. He needs to get this over with, fast. “Look, if you don’t wanna hang out just fucking tell me so I don’t waste my time, got it?”

_ “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I didn’t say that!” _

Felix rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”

_ “Hang on, that’s not what I said and it’s not what I meant.” _

“Spit it out, then,” Felix spits out.

_ “I do wanna hang out I’m just,” _ he sighs,  _ “I’m just sooo busy. You know how it is.” _

“Uh huh.” Annette nods encouragingly. Felix sighs. “I don’t play games. Got it?”

_ “Yeah, I got it.” _

“I’m asking you if you want to hang out. On a date.”

_ “Yep!” _

“Not as friends.”

_ “Nope!” _

He raises his eyebrows at Annette. She gestures for him to continue. “And you are saying yes to a date.”

_ “Yep!” _

“Okay.”

There’s a pause where Felix has the grand opportunity to reflect on his excellent social skills. Annette waves a hand in front of his face.

“Make plans!” she hisses. He rolls his eyes.

“Well,” Felix says, “You’re the one with the tight schedule. You do the work.”

Annette hides her face in her hands.

_ “Oh, right.” _ Felix narrows his eyes at the guy in spirit.  _ “Uh, hm. Tuesdays are usually pretty slow.” _

“So you’re saying Tuesday,” Felix says slowly. 

_ “Yeah,” _ he laughs,  _ “I know it’s a weird night, I understand if it doesn’t work —” _

“No, I’m self employed,” Felix cuts in, “Tuesday works.”

_ “Ooohhh! Oh! Okay! Um, cool. Yeah.” _

Felix briefly considers killing this guy. “You can change your mind anytime.”

_ “NO!” _ He coughs.  _ “No. I’m serious.” _

“...Uh huh. Okay.”

_ “So Tuesday?” _

“Yeah.”

_ “Great! Tuesday!” _

“Okay. Bye.”

Felix hangs up.

“Felix,” Annette says as soon as she sees the  _ call ended _ text, “That was the worst conversation I’ve ever been forced to listen to.”

“Nobody said you had to listen,” he mumbles.

“Yes they did.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “The gods of friendship told me I had to. For friendship.”

Felix doesn’t say anything.

“Wow, you don’t value our friendship at all! Fine!” She huffs. “I guess I won’t share the rough draft of my newest song, then.”

“Fine. For friendship, or whatever.”

She grins. “That’s what I thought.”

* * *

They plan to meet for a movie. 

Felix likes movies. He likes not talking to anyone. The movie’s the only one that has to impress anyone, and if the movie isn’t impressive, well, he’s really good at being a dick and he’s not afraid to rip apart the shitty things in his life. It’s the perfect first date. The perfect  _ only _ date.

He’s calm. Collected. He walks to the theater with earbuds in and only takes them out when Hot Pizza Guy rounds the corner and strolls up to him. He nods. Pizza guy smiles. Neither of them say a damn word.

He kinda likes Hot Pizza Guy.

“Have you seen this before?” Felix asks when they’re seated in the theater and laden with snacks. It’s the first thing either of them have said to one another. 

“What?” Hot Pizza Guy looks at him like he just crawled out of a badass extraterrestrial mech. “Didn’t this, like, just come out?”

Felix has to repress the very, very strong urge to roll his eyes. “No,” he says as evenly as he can, “This is its third run in theaters.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s fucking cool,” Felix explains thoroughly.

_ “Third run? _ I’ve never heard of a movie getting a second.”

“You’ll understand,” Felix says smugly. Hot Pizza Guy shrugs and doesn’t question him.

Yeah, he likes Hot Pizza Guy, even if he spreads out in his seat like an enormous jackass.

Felix very boldly rests his leg against Hot Pizza Guy’s. He’s warm.

That’s the last coherent thought he has before the movie he’s seen four times already blows him away.

Hot Pizza Guy is properly awestruck by the end. 

“What the fuck just happened?” he breathes out.

“A fucking masterpiece,” Felix says. 

“...Huh.”

“They really know how to animate a fight scene.” Felix looks at Sylvain to be sure he’s listening. “Everything they make has some giant planet-sized mech fight at the climax. It’s badass.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. Felix waits. “A lot of people died, huh?”

Felix blinks. “Yeah, I guess?”

“It was, uh, cool though,” Hot Pizza Guy admits. Felix nods. He knows.

_ “Sylvain?” _

Hot Pizza Guy jumps and looks toward someone with a purple mullet. They pull it off and like, Felix can respect that.

“Holy shit, Bernie!” Oh no. Ohhh no. The smile that lights up his face melts the aloof walls Felix built up and his heart absolutely fucking pounds. He watches, frozen in his seat, as Hot Pizza Guy —  _ Sylvain, _ apparently — stands and crosses half the theater in two strides to engulf his friend. He doesn’t hear the conversation that follows and he takes advantage of his newfound solitude to muster up some semblance of apathy before standing, slowly, and walking over to awkwardly wait to the side.

“Oh!” Purple Mullet’s eyes widen upon noticing Felix. “Hi!”

“Ah, right,” Sylvain rubs the back of his neck, “Yeah, uh, this is my friend.”

Felix and Purple Mullet both wait and watch Sylvain expectantly. When he doesn’t continue with introductions they look at one another.

“Bernie, she/her.” Bernie’s comfortable, gregarious speaking disappears behind her shy smile and her small wave.

“Felix,” he replies, “He/him. Thanks.”

She visibly relaxes and turns her attention back to Sylvain. “Let me know if you want any recommendations,” she says, continuing their conversation from before, “I think I know what you’d like.”

“Just text me what you think I’d like,” he says easily. His voice sounds a lot different from before. More relaxed? Smooth? “I trust your judgement.”

“Okay.” She waves again, “I’ll leave you to it. Um, have a good night.”

“Yeah, see you, Bernie.” 

“She seems nice,” Felix says after she runs away to her friends. Sylvain nods.

“Yeah. She is.”

The theater is empty; apparently they spent longer than Felix realized talking to Sylvain’s friend and the post-anime crowd has already dispersed. A burst of cool night air welcomes them when they walk out into the night.

The rest of the walk to Sylvain’s car is blessedly silent. This part of the city doesn’t see much traffic at night; aside from a handful of cars driving slowly by and a single bus they’re the only people on this stretch of road. It’s comforting for Felix. 

Felix feels no fear when he follows Sylvain down a darker side street, one that doesn’t have metered parking. One that’s dark as hell. 

Their steps slow. They must be approaching his car. Felix is starting to suspect the silence is a bit more than silence. Is Sylvain  _ shy? _ He sure wasn’t fucking shy with a stack of pizza in his arms. He sure wasn’t fucking shy while talking to Bernie.

Maybe Sylvain gets shy on the first date. That’s fine. He’s pretty sure Sylvain has the same goal as him, and Felix can fix shy. This is business. There’s nobody to impress.

Their steps stop. Sylvain turns to him and leans against a black SUV.

“Well,” he starts, “This is my car.”

Felix hums. He’s analyzing. He’s never been good at reading people.

“I’d better, um —”

Fuck it. He presses his hand above Sylvain’s stupidly tall shoulder and leans in. Sylvain stops speaking. His mouth stops moving. Felix is sure if there were any light on this street he’d see Sylvain’s face match his hair.

“Tell me to stop,” Felix leans closer. He speaks his next words against Sylvain’s lips. “And I will.”

He waits.

Slowly, gently, he presses their lips together.

He waits. The only sound on the street is Sylvain’s shaking breath.

He pulls Sylvain’s lower lip between his own and all at once Sylvain’s hands are on him, pulling them together and erasing all hesitation and fear and insecurity. Felix knows he groans into the kiss and he can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is the new handprint on Sylvain’s previously pristine SUV and the sweet taste of his lips on his tongue.

He sinks his hand into the soft hair at the base of Sylvain’s neck, runs his nails along the back of his head, and  _ pulls. _ He tastes and swallows the shiver and nips at his lower lip before pulling and guiding Sylvain’s head to tilt back, exposing his freckled neck and rapid pulse. He ghosts his lips over Sylvain’s stubble,  _ savors _ the burn, and tightens his grip in tandem with the bite he places on his jaw.

The sound Sylvain makes sounds like heaven.

His fingers press against Felix’s waist; he could suffocate just like this, drowned even when he’s the one doing the drowning. 

Felix bites again, this time lower on his neck, and lower still until he’s sucking a mark just above his collarbone. Sylvain’s heavy breath fills his world; the heat between them tightens his jeans. 

Felix pulls Sylvain’s collar with the hand that’s not currently calling the shots in his hair. Sylvain moves obediently, stumbling along, following Felix’s lead and stumbling over his own fucking feet to the back door of his car. He fumbles for the handle, he gets his fingers around it, he slips, he grabs it again —

_ BEEP BEEEEEP! _

Felix jerks back and Sylvain’s hands shoot away from him. A voice distantly yells out,  _ “Get a room!” _

The heat between them tightens up and freezes. Sylvain laughs. It’s an awkward, stilted thing.

“Right,” he says, “We’re outside. This is, uh, my car.”

Felix gestures half assedly. “Yeah. It is.”

“Um.” Sylvain isn’t making eye contact; he’s staring off to the side, to the ground, and then off to the side again. “I should go.”

Felix takes a step back, giving him space to recover from his, uh, situation. “Right. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Sylvain steps awkwardly — Felix isn’t sure why the fuck he’s trying to hide himself readjusting his dick that was pressed against Felix’s moments ago, but okay — and shuffles around his car to the driver’s door. “Uh, bye.”

“Bye.”

Felix turns abruptly and walks his ass back home. He thanks the night that there’s nobody around to see his hard-on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> puts literally everything else on hold and writes stupid bullshit To Cope(tm)
> 
> hey thanks for the love on this so far!!! it makes me really happy when the dumb shit i have fun doing makes other people happy. i hope you continue to like it :)
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakgamer)


	4. Chapter 4

The following morning Sylvain unlocks the doors on his pizza joint several hours early. He wipes everything down he was not there to personally witness being wiped down the night before, he sanitizes the money tray, he busts out the heavy duty gloves and degreases every hinge and doorway in the damn building. 

And then, when he’s out of excuses, he carefully opens the door to the long forgotten back office, piled high with unidentifiable shit left behind by the previous franchise owner. He pulls up an episode of whatever Bernie suggested he watch on his phone and gets to work.

By the time Ingrid walks through the front doors and stares in shock that he’s not only on time, but also early, he’s learned three things:

One, the back office is going to take several days and a few dumpster loads to clean out. I mean, who lives like this? Who the hell was managing this place before?

Two, he kinda likes anime.

Three, he’s screwed. So, so screwed.

“Ingrid,” he says as the first ticket rolls in, “I’m screwed.”

She pulls the ticket down and raises an eyebrow. “This is pretty standard,” she says.

“No, not that.” He takes it from her and sighs. “Go wash your hands again. I’m talking about the murderer.”

Ingrid hums a tune that sounds suspiciously like a certain Taylor Swift song about managing emotions and returns twenty-five seconds later with clean and dry hands. “Is he gonna murder you?”

“I think I might let him,” he admits. She hums.

“Stop thinking with your dick for a minute and make a decision with your brain,” she says, “Do you want him to murder you?”

He shrugs. “Kinda.”

“Okay, well, have fun.”

_ “Ingriiiiid!” _ he whines. She ignores him in favor of cutting up some dough that’s definitely not meant for the order that just came in. “What do I dooooo?”

“I’m not your mom.” She shoves what he assumes is a special snack just for Ingrid into the conveyor belt oven and moves on to making the actual order they’re being paid for.

“But what if you were?”

“Sylvain, if I was your mom I’d be rich as fuck.”

Sylvain barks out a surprised laugh. “Okay, point taken.”

“So, you know. Make whatever stupid choices you want,” she says, “But I’m too broke to pay for your funeral so you’ll just get trashed by the side of the road. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Wait, Ingrid, are you broke?!”

“Sylvain, I’m  _ always _ broke,” she huffs out. The pizza goes in the oven. She walks over to the other side and waits for her snack. “Why are you surprised?”

Sylvain pulls out his phone and sends an ungodly amount of money to Ingrid’s girlfriend who will neither deny Sylvain’s money nor tell Ingrid why their rent is paid for the forseeable future. He receives a thumbs-up emoji in response. “I’ll give you my share of the tips today,” he says.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re my mom now, I’m legally obligated.”

“Don’t  _ ever _ say that again.”

Sylvain decides he’ll just add a shitton of cash to the tip pile tonight and split it evenly from there.

“I think I’m gonna go for it,” he decides. Ingrid doesn’t say anything in response. He’ll take that as approval. 

He pulls out his phone.

> **Me:** hey

He puts his phone away and steals one of Ingrid’s very fresh, very hot dough bites. 

* * *

Their conversation goes a little something like this:

> **Me:** hey
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** is that really your best icebreaker
> 
> **Me:** haha yeah
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** does that work? do you actually get dates like that?
> 
> **Me:** it helps that i’m a cute ginger ;)
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** i hate you
> 
> **Me:** o damn :/ i better hit someone else up ttyl
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** fuck you
> 
> **Me:** ;)
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** aren’t you at work? why are you on your phone at work??
> 
> **Me:** i’m the big boss man nobody can tell me to get off my phone except me
> 
> **Me:** and maybe ingrid 
> 
> **Me:** and maybe i’d let you boss me around a bit. we’ll see
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** i can’t believe this

It’s around this point that Sylvain thinks it’s a bust. The guy isn’t reciprocating and he’s not one to look, ugh,  _ desperate. _

“He’s saving your life,” Ingrid reminds him.

“I knoooow,” Sylvain whines.

But he can’t get rid of the taste on his lips. The sore spot where Felix bit and  _ pulled _ stings with every traitorous slice he eats. He’s concerned pepperoni will make him horny forever and he’ll never know freedom, forever chained down in a murder dungeon where he delivered his own death.

So he keeps this dead-end conversation going.

> **Me:** you’d better believe it baby cuz i mean every word i say
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** i highly doubt that
> 
> **Me:** i’m happy to put my money where my mouth is. you know, if you’re into that
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** what does that even mean
> 
> **Me:** ;)

He leaves it there. Felix clearly wants to be left alone and is too nice to say it which, admittedly, is a bit weird for a murderer. But he’s not going to push it, he’s just going to die slowly with the memory of being manhandled into the backseat of his own car until he d —

> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** [image_44.jpg]

And that’s when Sylvain cracks the screen on his very new, very expensive, very in-a-heavy-duty-protective-case phone.

“Fuck!” he shouts.

“Are you okay?” Ingrid yells from across the kitchen. Sylvain scrambles to pick it up.

“Yeah, sorry! Everything’s fine!” he shouts back. This is good enough for her and he’s left in peace to gaze at this piece of art through the crack that now spreads from one corner of his phone screen to the other.

Felix is laid back, lazy and languid, in what Sylvain assumes to be his bed; dark tartan sheets contrast against his pale, slightly flushed skin and nearly camouflage his hair in the shitty lighting. His eyes follow the fluid line from his neck down his arm, to his hand and to his, ugh,  _ very sexy _ sword. Felix’s other hand holds what he assumes to be a sheath or whatever (wait, did he use a  _ tripod?) _ and in his very clear mind’s eye he can see that same hand wrapped around his dick.

Sylvain’s breath stutters when he realizes just what Felix is doing.

There’s only a few inches of sword between what he’s pretty sure is called the handle and the sheath and, Sylvain realizes, the gesture is deliberately reflected further down where — he swallows — the sheath continues to the bottom of the photo. Felix is definitely not wearing pants, and is just barely covering his dick. He takes in the visible sliver of skin at his base and the mess of black hair that covers his groin and trails up his navel. His hand shakes. He swallows.

“Sylvain, are you okay?” Ingrid’s voice snaps him out of whatever fantasy he was about to run toward.

“Huh?” He hurries to lock his phone, “Yeah, why?”

“You’re blushing.”

Sylvain Gautier is, indeed, blushing.

“Oh,” he laughs, “Don’t worry about it.”

She narrows her eyes. “Fine. I won’t.”

Sylvain, however, is definitely worrying about it. As soon as Ingrid turns back to whatever she was doing he pulls his phone out and frantically types.

> **Me:** holy shit dude
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** what
> 
> **Me:** so. wyd 
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** i’m pretty sure that’s obvious
> 
> **Me:** ok but how about later
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** is that an offer
> 
> **Me:** i’m just sayin, i have a nice place
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** where
> 
> **Me:** midtown
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** that’s across town
> 
> **Me:** is that a problem?
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** i don’t have a car
> 
> **Me:** o

Sylvain thinks really hard about his options. He could just not do that. Not an option. He could pick Felix up, go back to his place, and drop Felix off again later. He doesn’t think he’ll survive a few minutes in the car alone. Not an option. He could go to Felix’s murder hut and risk life and limb for a chance to run his tongue up a murderer’s ribs.

> **Me:** what if i just come to you
> 
> **HE WILL MURDER YOU:** ok

He’s getting better at reading him. Felix must be pretty excited.

* * *

Sylvain, while terrified, is pretty confident he’s not getting murdered tonight.

It starts easy enough. Sylvain gets to Felix’s apartment with pizza and booze and his charming personality. Felix lets him in with his murderous body and infuriatingly enchanting jeggings. He smiles easy. Felix directs him to leave the goods on the countertop. As soon as his arms are empty Felix slots himself in and pulls Sylvain against him.

“Wow, hello,” Sylvain laughs.

“Shut up,” Felix says.

Sylvain shuts up.

He doesn’t know how he’s gonna live without the taste of him after this. He’s sharp — in texture and taste, but also in aura and attitude. His hands are weirdly cold. There’s something bitter and heavy on his tongue and Sylvain  _ can’t get enough. _

But, alas, he’s only a mortal.

“I’m starving,” he breathes against Felix’s lips. 

“Hm,” Felix says before he pulls Sylvain’s lower lip back into his mouth. 

“Let’s eat first.”

Felix breaks apart and looks at the stack of pizzas with a furrowed brow as if he’s weighing hunger and horny.

“Yeah,” he concedes, “That’s a good idea.”

He squeezes Felix’s hip as a promise of what’s to come. Felix’s hands drop from his collar unceremoniously and he walks, all business, to retrieve plates and cups and all that shit. Sylvain isn’t shy about watching the way his jeggings pull around his legs and nonexistent ass. 

_ “What?” _ Felix snaps when he turns back around. His jeggings do nothing to hide his erection. Nice.

“Just lookin’,” Sylvain says with a cocky grin. His eyes slowly trail up the lines of his tight t-shirt and the sharp angle of his cheekbones to his dark eyes. His grin grows.

“Stupid,” he mutters.

Sure.

They load up their plates and eat on the couch, which Sylvain hates. Felix pulls up what Sylvain recognizes as  _ anime _ but can’t get into nearly as easy as he did before. Forty-five minutes later he’s horrified to discover Felix has no qualms whatsoever with setting his dirty dishes directly on his concrete floor until he’s well and ready to bring them to the sink. Sylvain brings them for him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Felix says when he returns and sits much closer to Felix than before.

“I really did.”

Felix just looks at him. He’s hard to get a read on; is he bored? Aloof? Walled off? He’s sure as shit not shy. Sylvain grins — soft, this time — and it turns out he was just waiting for permission. 

There’s no build-up, no easing into it; Felix just manhandles Sylvain onto his back and nips at his jaw.

“You don’t —  _ ah _ — have curtains,” Sylvain forces out.

“Mhm,” Felix says into his neck.

“Why not? Do —  _ fuck _ — do you wanna be seen?” Felix pulls back and glares at him. “It’s cool if you’re into that. Just tell a guy, y’know?”

Felix’s glare doesn’t soften, but he looks from Sylvain to his very bright, very clear windows. “Hm,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sylvain confirms.

“Come on.” Again, with no build-up, Felix easily climbs off him and walks straight toward the ladder to his loft bed. Sylvain isn’t really sure how that’s gonna work out, but he knows how to make it a lot more fun.

He doesn’t let Felix make it all the way to the ladder; instead, he hurries up behind Felix and wraps his hands around his waist, immobilizing him, and peppers feather-light kisses down the side of his neck. 

Felix tenses in his hands. Okay, he doesn’t like the soft shit. 

He turns it up. He grips tighter, tight enough to bruise, and pushes Felix face-first into an expanse of blank, white wall, pressing into him from behind and grinding his rapidly hardening dick against his ass. He goes limp, his breath stutters, Sylvain trails his mouth down his neck and sinks his teeth into the skin where his neck meets his shoulders.

Felix moans. The sound echoes in the large empty room.

Nice.

Fueled by the proper urgency and fervor, Sylvain guides Felix to the stupid fucking ladder and pushes him to climb first. He decides he’s living dangerously enough and doesn’t smack his ass. He can do that later when he’s still alive. Felix pulls him the last few rungs up and on top of him. They scramble, hot and desperate, onto his mattress laying directly on the floor and, with Sylvain flat on his back and Felix’s thigh pressing down onto his dick, stuttering as he rips his jeggings down and rolls a condom on, Sylvain’s lungs burn and he welcomes every awful, wretched, lovely noise that’s about to echo back onto his tongue.

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t mean to spend the night. Something pulls him snug and under the covers and fills his sleeping mind with comforting dreams and he doesn’t wake up until much, much later than he typically does after these sorts of things. 

The world comes into lazy focus around him. He realizes a few things.

One, he is the only one in this bed, if it can even be called a bed. 

Two, there’s a distinct repeating  _ shhng! _ sound coming from somewhere below him.

Three, he’s alive.

He scrambles around for his phone and finds it plugged in — something he  _ definitely _ didn’t do — and unlocks his cracked screen to see  _ 11:14 am, 69% charged. _ Wait, did Felix plug his phone in when he got up?  _ Serial killer Felix? _ What the hell?

He shoots Ingrid a text to confirm he’s alive and, with as much grace as a grown ass man climbing a ladder in half his clothes can muster, he climbs out of Felix’s loft and pulls on the rest of his clothes draped over the arm of the couch.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Hm,” Felix responds. Sylvain almost doesn’t hear him over the sound of him sharpening a fucking sword. 

“Well, uh, I’ve gotta go.” He isn’t sure he’s ever been quite so nervous about ditching a one-night stand. “Uh, yeah. Bye.”

Felix snorts. “Bye.”

Getting to and out the door is like wading through quicksand, except the quick is the sound of a terrifyingly sexy man sharpening a sword and the sand is Sylvain’s newly discovered murder kink, but he makes it and he makes it to his car and he makes it to his place.

That’s it. That’s all he needed. One and done. No more, no less. He can hold himself back from sending a text a few hours later.

Sylvain finds himself unable to hold himself back from sending a text a few hours later. He can’t get rid of him. He’s haunted, damned, out of control and dragged behind. This may be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, but it may also be the best.

Which means it’s time for him to fuck everything up and go out in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who used to work at a domino’s I support the domino’s strike and sylvain does too
> 
> I hope one day, when historians and sociologists study the COVID-19 pandemic and quarantines, they read my fanfiction and laugh about it.
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FANART? THERE’S FANART? OH MFY SD LSKDLS AAAAAAAA  
>  [[Pizza Delivery Sylvain by Natendo_art]](https://twitter.com/natendo_art/status/1244661649254080513?s=20)  
>  [[[image_44.jpg] by Tasigat]](https://twitter.com/tasigat/status/1244723803978113024?s=20)
> 
> THANK YOU THAKN YOU THANK YOU I’M SO ???? AAAAA AAAAAAAAAAA yall made my day! It means so much to me that you’d take the time to draw fanart for my humble fanfiction
> 
> one more quick note!! I decided to change the rating of this fic to E after a friend pointed out I was really toeing the line. Any chapters with explicit sexual content (moreso than the last chapter, basically) will have a warning in the beginning notes to give you a heads up. Thanks again!!!

Felix likes him.

This is bad. Very, very bad. Very, very, very, very, very, very, _very bad._

“It’s not that bad,” Annette tells him.

It’s that bad.

“Why don’t you just, I don’t know, try?” she suggests. He groans. “Don’t give me that, Felix Fraldarius.”

He groans again.

“I know you like to be little mister I-don’t-care-so-I-won’t-get-hurt, but —”

“Fuck you,” Felix says.

“You only say that when I’m right,” she says smugly. Ugh.

“Fuck you,” he repeats.

“Uh huh.” 

“I need to scare him off,” Felix mutters.

“You definitely don’t need to do that.”

“How do I scare him off.”

“You don’t.”

Felix considers this option briefly. Then he considers the inevitable end of Sylvain deciding he’s just some weird asshole and leaving. He no longer considers this option.

“What if I tell him the freckles on his ass are weird?” he suggests.

“Um, one, TMI,” Annette sighs, “Two, you don’t think they’re gross.”

“So? I could.”

“You should try not lying.”

Felix grumbles about nothing and unlocks his phone to see the text notification from Sylvain. He locks it again.

“What did he say?” Damn, Annette can read his mind. He forgot.

“Nothing,” he lies.

“What did I just say about lying?” She reaches out, lightning fast, and snatches his phone from his hands. He stares at his empty palms. “You haven’t even opened it?!”

“No,” he admits.

“Wow. Not only are you evil, but you’re also stupid.”

“Hm.”

Annette doesn’t think that’s worth a response, which is fair. He listens from deep within the sludge of his brain to the sound of Annette scrolling through his phone.

“Don’t scroll too high,” he says in a sudden fit of clarity.

“I figured that out,” she says, her voice dripping with disgust. Ah, well. Whoops. “You’re incapable of flirting. It’s kind of impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. What’s his full name?”

Felix finally turns to look at her. “Huh?”

“What’s his full name? It’s not hot pizza guy.”

“Uh,” Felix says thoughtfully. Annette rolls her eyes.

“You don’t know.”

“I didn’t know his first name before,” he mumbles.

“Felix…”

“You don’t know his last name, either.”

 _“I_ didn’t — you know what? Nevermind.” She dumps his phone onto his chest and pulls hers out. “I can find him without your help.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Annette,” he warns.

“Shh!” The bright white of her screen reflects a sickly glow off her face. “I think I found him.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Do you know why he has his job as his last name?”

_“What?”_

“His last name is Gautier,” she says, “Like the store he works for. I understand wanting a fake last name, but your job?”

He leans over in spite of himself and looks at the page Annette has pulled up. At the top is a photo of a familiar ginger looking unfairly attractive in the most hideous tank top he’s ever seen. Underneath, in big bold text, is the name _Sylvain Gautier._

“Weird,” Felix says. 

“Yeah,” Annette clicks on the photos tab, “Reply to his text while I’m doing this.”

Felix looks dumbly at his blank phone screen. With a heavy sigh Annette takes his phone, unlocks it, opens Sylvain’s text, and puts it back in Felix’s hand. He stares.

> **Hot Pizza Guy:** hey

“Why’s this guy so boring?” Felix groans. Annette shrugs.

“Men can’t text,” she says. 

“I can text.”

“You definitely can’t text — holy shit.”

He straightens up. “What?”

“Felix.”

_“What?”_

Annette turns her phone screen to him. Her eyes shine with mischief. “Do you know who this is?” she asks.

He narrows his eyes at the screen. Sylvain has his arm draped lazily around the shoulders of a much shorter person with a blunt blonde bob in front of what was probably a beautiful view of the river before it got distorted through a cell phone camera.

“No,” he says, voice flat. Annette’s grin grows.

 _“That,”_ she says, “Is Ingrid.”

He blinks. “Who?”

“You know, Ingrid!”

He does not know.

“Ugh!” Annette takes her phone back. “I went on a weird date with her a few months ago. Remember?”

Felix can’t possibly be assed to keep track of Annette’s weird dates. “No.”

“You’re the worst,” she sighs, “She inhaled an entire bucket of chicken and barely talked the entire time.”

That sounds familiar. “Oh.”

“Great job. Wow, I can’t believe he knows her,” Annette’s voice fades into awe, “We both dated these nerds.”

“We both went on one date with these nerds,” Felix corrects her.

“No, _I_ went on one date. _You_ went on two, and you’re gonna go on a third and you’re not gonna fuck it all up on purpose.”

Felix grunts and looks at the _Hey_ on his screen again.

“Just say hey back,” Annette snaps.

“That’s so boring,” he mutters.

“Fine, tell him about your favorite sword.”

His heart leaps.

“Actually, don’t do that.”

His heart goes back to the void.

“I don’t know, Felix! Ask him about his day! Conversation goes both ways!”

“His _day?”_ Felix asks, disgusted, “Ugh.”

“Fine! You come up with something better!”

Felix sits. And stares. And thinks. He goes through every possibility, every conversation and its long-term ramifications. He considers the likelihood of everything blowing up, of feeling familiar (but still soul-crushing) rejection, and the likelihood of a slow fade out.

He thinks he’s got it.

> **Me:** hey. how was your day?

He can admit to himself that sometimes Annette’s right.

“Can’t go wrong with the classics,” she comments. He opens his mouth to say something very witty but his phone buzzes in his hands and commands all his attention. She snorts. “Just talk to him. I’ll chaperone so you don’t sabotage yourself.”

He rolls his eyes before indulging.

> **Hot Pizza Guy:** damn i thought you ghosted me lol
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** it was good! 
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** hbu
> 
> **Me:** good. Annette’s over again
> 
> **Hot Pizza Guy:** ooo need any pizza? ;)

“Is his name seriously hot pizza guy?” Annette asks.

Felix slowly looks from his phone back to Annette. “...Yes?”

She lightly slaps him on the arm. “Bad, Felix! Bad!”

“What?!”

“You know his name! Change it!”

He scowls, but he follows instructions. Annette’s pleased with herself.

> **Me:** no
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:**

“You made his last name _Pizza Guy?!”_

“What, do _you_ know his last name?”

Annette crosses her arms. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** bummer, i hear there’s this really good pizza joint, maybe you’ve heard of it
> 
> **Me:** i’m sure i have
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** you ever been?
> 
> **Me:** do people actually GO to pizza places?
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** hang on i’ll give you a tour
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** [media message]

Felix hurriedly puts his phone facedown on his chest.

“Do I wanna know?” Annette asks.

“No,” he says.

“Okay.” She sighs. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me.”

* * *

Neither of them pushes for another date.

This should be a good thing. This should mean Felix can fade him out guilt-free and keep him as a hazy memory and a funny story. He should be able to let go of thoughts of lingering touches and meaningful looks. He should. He should. He should.

> **Me:** i mean i don’t really know how to explain without showing you, i assure you they’re completely different
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** the pic you sent before was very informative, you know
> 
> **Me:** ok hold on
> 
> **Me:** [image_56.jpg]

That one is actually a photo of two swords.

A photo of two swords he shouldn’t have sent in the first place, because he should be stepping back into the shadows and disappearing long before he hurts Sylvain or Sylvain replaces him. But Felix is selfish, in the conversation he makes and in the company he keeps, and he keeps doing what he wants and what he wants to do is Sylvain.

Not that they’ve, you know, _done anything_ since the night Sylvain went to his condo, save for sharing more ill-advised photos and writing out what they would do to one another and —

Yeah, he should walk away. He should also cancel on Annette and invite Sylvain over.

He takes a notably not-nude selfie in the passenger seat of Annette’s hatchback and sends it to Sylvain, who replies with several heart-eyed emojis almost immediately. He ignores the surge of pride that shoots up his gut and into his throat and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

“Are you gonna be on your phone all night?” Annette asks. She’s teasing. Smug little spitfire has been his weird little cheerleader anytime he tries to reply with more than _hey_ or _ok._

“Maybe,” he says. He’s also teasing. They both know he’ll be on his phone all night.

“You’re so rude.” She sighs. “After all I’ve done for you. I got you a boyfriend —”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“I got you out of your house —”

“It’s a condo.” He likes being pedantic.

“And now you’re gonna have _fun!_ Don’t you wanna have fun?”

“No.”

“Well too bad.” She pulls into Dimitri’s enormous fucking driveway and parks behind someone’s black SUV. “You’re gonna have fun whether you like it or not. Look, Caspar brought a keg.”

Felix looks toward the front door. She’s right; Caspar is effortlessly carrying a keg into the house.

“Dimitri’s gonna love that,” Felix mutters. Annette snorts. 

“Come on.”

Annette unbuckles her seatbelt and throws her door open and Felix follows not far behind. _Clack-clacks_ echo across the concrete from underneath Annette’s boots and join the echoes in the frankly ostentatious foyer. He can hear Dimitri yelling from deeper in the house.

_“Ah — thank you, I — yes, thank you —”_

“Caspar didn’t tell him he was bringing a keg, huh,” Annette says. Felix hums. There’s no fucking way Caspar told Dimitri he was bringing a keg.

Felix follows Annette’s lead into the party proper; discordant music and shouting overtake his ability to think and breathe almost immediately. He and Annette make eye contact, nod, and make their first stop at the drink table.

He’ll need to survive somehow.

“Here,” she shoves a wine cooler in his hand. He curls his nose. “Wait, no, that’s mine. Here.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen a whiskey pouch,” Felix says, looking over the metallic bag and its little straw that Annette hands to him. She shrugs. He sticks the straw in. It tastes like whiskey. “Can’t say I’ve ever had whiskey through a straw, either.”

“Whatever, it’s fun,” Annette says.

Annette gravitates toward the middle of the room and Felix gravitates toward the edge. He makes his own space against the wall near Linhardt and watches the party unfold.

It’s spectacularly boring. He pulls out his phone, instead.

> **Me:** i’m so bored
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** oh nooooooooo
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** sorry i can’t distract you :( i’m kinda busy
> 
> **Me:** ugh

Across the room Annette’s chatting with some blonde in a snapback. Someone hands them both plates with pizza slices. Lorenz tries to start a conversation. He shrugs in response until he gives up and goes away. Fuck, he hates parties. Who invented these.

> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** what are you up to anyway?
> 
> **Me:** my friend’s throwing a party
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** that sounds fun!!! why are you bored?
> 
> **Me:** i hate parties
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** hahaha somehow that doesn’t surprise me
> 
> **Me:** nobody should like parties
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** idk i like parties
> 
> **Me:** yeah well you like me so what does that say about your taste

Felix regrets that immediately. Time to recover.

> **Me:** lol
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** brutal!!!
> 
> **Me:** sucks to be you i guess

Shit. No. He brought attention back to it. He sucks up the rest of his whiskey pouch so he’s not tempted to continue. Someone passes him a fresh one. He stabs the straw in and drinks.

> **Me:** anywaay what are u doin
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** oh nm i’m at a friend’s place
> 
> **Me:** o havre fun

He finishes the second whiskey pouch. Someone makes to hand him a third —

“Nope! Nope, no more!” Annette’s lovely, familiar voice cuts in and she waves whoever away.

“Annette,” Felix doesn’t whine.

“Felix.”

“Annette.”

“Felix.”

He doesn’t pout. “He’s having fun.”

“Holy shit, Felix,” she laughs, “When was the last time you drank some water?”

He tries to think. He doesn’t know. Annette crosses her arms.

“You’re going to go to the bathroom,” she says slowly, “And you’re going to drink a bunch of water. You’re going to stay out of the kitchen because if you puke on everything I will kill you.”

“I’m not gonna puke on anything,” Felix mumbles.

“Great. Go get some water.”

Felix is physically incapable of saying no to Annette on a good day, but a couple drinks in? When he’s crabby? Definitely can’t. He drags his feet to a quieter bathroom down the hall and leans on the door until it shuts, sliding down the whole way. He checks his phone. No response yet.

He wants to fix that. Can he fix that? He knows how to fix that.

In the safety of Dimitri’s out-of-the-way, quiet bathroom, Felix pulls out his phone and unzips his jeans. 

> **Me:** [image_58.jpg]
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** holy shit
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** holy shit

Hah.

His phone buzzes a third time.

> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** [media message]

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before; Sylvain’s hair is perfectly mussed, his smile perfectly sculpted, the freckles spattered all over his face and neck draw constellations and the freckles over the back of his hand disappear just underneath the waistband of his jeans. Familiar bottles cover the counter and reflect in the mirror, cutting off the line of his hip peeking out from his jeans. Something about this all feels almost… _normal._

Felix’s eye catches on the linen closet behind him.

Wait.

> **Me:** wait.

He brings the phone closer and pinches on the photo to zoom in. He knows those wooden doors. He knows those designer knobs.

> **Me:** hold the fufck on

His phone buzzes in his hands. He’s too busy confirming what he already knows to be true to actually check. His phone buzzes a second time.

> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** ??? ok i’m waiting
> 
> **Sylvain Pizza Guy:** everything ok?
> 
> **Me:** you’re in dimitri’s house

Felix hurries to his feet, remembers Annette’s instructions and hurriedly drinks straight from the tap like he’s a kid, and bangs out of the bathroom, into the kitchen, past a wide-eyed Dimitri next to an enormous stack of pizza boxes, around a corner, past the biggest pantry he’s ever seen, and to the closed door he knows damn well Sylvain is behind.

“Come out here and face me!” he shouts at the closed door.

“I-is everything okay?” Dimitri pops his head around the corner to ask. Felix ignores him.

The door opens.

Haloed by the yellow vanity lights, smelling like pizza and cologne, stands Sylvain, wide-eyed and blinking, in Dimitri’s other bathroom.

“Holy shit.” Sylvain’s eyes flick down.

Felix has never been much for words.

He surges up into Sylvain’s mouth — a bit too hard, but he can recover — and kisses the ever loving fuck out of him. He doesn’t hear Dimitri laugh and retreat. He doesn’t hear the song change or the party grow. All his senses are focused on this; Sylvain’s taste, his hands on his waist, his smell, his voice.

“Felix,” he says. Felix drinks it up. He says it again, a bit more forcefully, “Felix.”

He pulls back, frankly a bit offended. “What?”

“You’re drunk.”

Felix scoffs. “I’m not drunk.”

Sylvain’s hands steady him while his eyes search for something. Warmth, home, whatever it is he doesn’t seem to find it and he repeats himself. “Felix, you’re drunk. You reek of booze.”

“I’m a grown man,” he snaps.

“You’re a drunk grown man.”

He changes tactics. “So?”

“So,” he’s talking a lot slower now, “We’re going to take a rain check. We can make out in Dimitri’s bathroom another time.”

Felix doesn’t see any give, any holes in his defenses. He takes his hands off Sylvain’s shirt and crosses his arms in front of him. This is stupid. Sylvain squeezes his waist. It’s warm. Reassuring. It pisses him off.

“It’s okay,” he says as if Felix is an unpredictable stray cat, “Just… not like this. Okay?”

Felix has made up his mind. He pushes Sylvain’s hands off him, spins on his heel, and storms back into the party to find Annette. It doesn’t take long; she’s talking to the blonde from before.

“Annette,” he says once he’s close enough. Annette and the blonde both turn to him. “He said I’m too drunk.”

Annette’s smile turns from jovial to devious. “Who said you’re too drunk?” she asks.

He scowls.

“Was it Sylvain?”

“Huh?” the blonde looks between them, “You know Sylvain?”

“Oh, he knows Sylvain,” Annette snorts. Felix doesn’t know what’s up with this but he doesn’t think it’s very funny. 

“He doesn’t know me,” Felix spits out, “I’m not too drunk.”

“Did you drink water like I told you to?”

“Yes,” he grunts.

“Good job.” Annette pats him on the head. He lets her. “I’m proud of you.”

“How do you know Sylvain?” the blonde asks.

“Oh, they’re _totally_ not boyfriends,” Annette says. 

_“Ohhh,”_ the blonde nods, “You’re the murderer.”

“I’m the _what?”_

Annette bursts out laughing.

“I have _never_ murdered!” he shouts.

The blonde fights back a laugh and says, “Okay, well, you should tell Sylvain that. He’s right there.”

Felix turns fast enough to hit himself in the face with his own ponytail. Sure enough, Sylvain’s right there. His hands are raised in front of him in defense.

“Hey, hold on, wait,” he starts, but Felix is much too fast.

“There he is, Annette!”

“I — _fuck_ — I’ve met him, asshole,” she chokes out between her laughter.

“I can explain,” Sylvain says.

“Oh my god,” the blonde one says, “You’re really gonna kill him.”

Annette falls to the floor.

“Ingrid, you’re not helping.”

“Neither are you,” the blonde, Ingrid, points out.

“Why would I kill him?!” Felix shouts.

“Look!” Sylvain yells, forcing his voice above Annette’s laughter and Felix’s own shouting and the music still pumping through the room, “I’m sorry I called you a murderer, okay?”

 _“What?!”_ Felix is getting a bit dizzy, “When did you even do that?!”

Annette pounds on Dimitri’s very expensive hardwood floor.

“Wh — on the picture of your murder condo! On the internet!!”

Felix’s jaw drops. Details swim into his vision. Everything falls into place. “That was _you?!”_

_“YOU DIDN’T KNOW?!”_

Ingrid falls to the ground with Annette.

_“WHY WOULD I KNOW?!”_

“Fuck,” Sylvain’s voice cracks, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You thought I was going to _murder_ you?”

“Yes?”

“Why the _fuck_ did you come to my house?”

Sylvain shrugs.

“What kind of stupid asshole —”

“Hey, Sylvain!” Annette climbs up Felix’s leg until she’s standing again. “What’s your last name?”

His entire face changes at that. His eyes snap to Annette and the naked desperation on his face snaps into a cocky, collected smile. “Hm? Why do you ask?”

“How did you do that?” Felix asks with wonder.

“Well, I always do my homework on my friends’ uh, _dates,”_ she glances at Felix, “Why do you have your job as your last name?”

Sylvain’s face relaxes. “Oh, uh, no. My last name is Gautier.”

“Oh, wild!” Annette laughs to herself, “I wouldn’t wanna work somewhere with my name, I guess. What’s it like?”

Ingrid snorts.

“Well, uh,” Sylvain scratches the back of his neck, “It’s a family business.”

“Family business,” Ingrid mutters.

“Delivering pizza is a family business?” Annette chokes out.

“Hah, yeah,” Sylvain laughs sheepishly. “Papa John Gautier was my old man.”

The world around them is a small, silent bubble, popped only when Annette falls to the floor again and pulls Felix with her.

“Holy — _fuck_ —” Annette forces out between laughter, “Figures _this_ rich inheritance having asshole would fucking — _fuck!”_

“Wh — hey!”

“Not you,” Annette waves a hand at Sylvain, _“This_ one.”

Felix sits, prone and vulnerable, barely recovering from his own laughter next to Annette. Fuck, why is this so funny?

“Oh,” Sylvain says, which makes everything _much_ funnier.

“Wow,” Ingrid says, “You were made for each other.”

Sylvain shoots Ingrid a look. Ingrid shoots a smirk back.

“Shit, well,” Sylvain runs a hand through his hair, “Now that that’s, uh, worked out, I was actually about to get ready to leave.”

“Aw, you’re not staying?” Annette whines. Felix definitely doesn’t pout at him.

“No,” he grins, “I promised Ingrid I’d get her home safe. How late are you staying?”

“Oh, we’re staying the night,” Annette says.

“Oh.” Sylvain looks from Annette, to Felix, to Ingrid, back to Annette. “Do, uh, do you want a ride home?”

Annette shakes her head. “I don’t wanna come back for my car.”

Sylvain nods. “Fair enough. Well, Ingrid, let’s go.”

This entire time Felix has been struggling to keep up; his brain lags behind the conversation and, all at once, loads the entire thing. He shoots to his feet, sways a bit, but manages to stay upright.

“I’ll take a ride,” he says. Sylvain covers up the surprise on his face real quick.

“Great!” he gestures for Felix to follow, “I’ll get you back.”

* * *

Felix really shouldn’t be surprised Sylvain’s a good driver. 

He drops Ingrid off first — they’re longtime friends, turns out, and Ingrid’s known Dimitri forever — and the drive from Ingrid’s to Felix’s feels long and much, much too short. The pine freshener in Sylvain’s car matches the sharp air of the city night and he feels at home.

“Are you coming up?” Felix asks, knowing damn well Sylvain just pulled up on the sidewalk and isn’t anywhere near a parking space. Sylvain smiles softly in response and shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “I need to get home. I’ll hit you up in the morning.”

Felix nods. He tries to mask his disappointment but, well, he’s never been good at hiding his feelings. Sylvain reaches out and squeezes his hand.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says, “It’s that you’ve been drinking.”

“I know,” Felix says. His voice is small. He swallows. “Get home safe.”

He squeezes his hand again. “You too.”

Ugh. 

Maybe a little clumsy, maybe a little slowly, Felix climbs out of Sylvain’s big ass SUV. He successfully makes it into his building, into his unit, and up a very dangerous ladder to his bed. He lays back on his bed and huffs.

He knows what’s coming, and he knows himself well enough to know he’s powerless to stop it. Felix Fraldarius, who only ever wanted to fuck, has found himself falling for a man with a soft smile. Typical. 

Well, whatever. Fuck it. He already looks like an enormous loser. Might as well make it worse so he can quicken the fall and get it all over with. He pulls out his phone, types up a quick _good night,_ and throws it back down on the floor next to his bed.

Sleep comes quickly; it always does when he’s been forced to talk to other human beings. It won’t be until morning that he sees:

> **Sylvain Gautier:** good night <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this in like a few hours earlier today and i proofread it but it's hard to proofread well when it's fresh and i'm impatient so! i hope it was good lol!
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE FANART I'M. I NEED TO LAY DOWN
> 
> [[so, your boyfriend's papa john by @hekxate]](https://twitter.com/hekxate/status/1245213310468816898?s=20)
> 
> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAA

“You know,” Ingrid says, “I don’t think he wants to murder you.”

Sylvain tries really hard not to reply but, like, he can’t keep his mouth shut.

“I noticed,” he says.

“Did you?  _ Really?” _

“Yes!”

Her eyes sweep over him. He raises his hands up in surrender. 

“I promise!” he laughs, “His  _ I-have-never-murdered _ statement was very convincing.”

“Uh huh.” She considers him for a moment more before returning to stretching out dough. “Don’t fuck this one up.”

“Ingrid!” he pouts and she doesn’t even notice, “I would never.”

“Yes you would.”

“Okay, maybe I would. But I’m a changed man!”

“Prove it.”

He smiles despite himself. “Fine! I will.”

An uneasy silence comes between them. They work side-by-side, stepping around one another, accompanied only by the regular flow of order tickets, Ashe’s shuffling footsteps, and the noises from the oven. 

“You know,” Ingrid finally says after several minutes, “I knew he looked familiar.”

Not what he was expecting. “Huh?”

“I’ve seen him before,” she explains, “He knows Annette.”

Sylvain’s thoughts need a moment to catch up. “What?”

“The girl he was with at the party.”

“Wait, you know her?”

She pauses what she’s doing to stare deep into his soul. “Yes, Sylvain, I know Annette.”

Ashe pops around the corner. “Annette who?”

“Since when do you know her?!”

“We went on a date,” she explains, her voice terse, “I never called her after that, she was way too chipper, but we follow each other.”

Sylvain blinks. “You went on a date?”

“Yes, Sylvain, I went on a date.”

“With Annette?” Ashe asks.

“With Felix’s best friend?”

“Apparently.”

“But I’m  _ your _ best friend.”

“Yes. Good job.”

Sylvain doesn’t have anything more to add. She rolls her eyes and gets back to work. Ashe looks between them both, distinctly left out of the conversation.

“Anyway, I figured it out,” she continues, “He’s the cryptid in the background of a bunch of her photos.”

“He’s — what?”

“He’s always blurry.”

_ “What?” _

She groans. “Do I really have to spell everything out for you?”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“Your crush on greasy bigfoot doesn’t make any sense but you’re feeling actual emotions for once in your life so I’m happy for you, anyway.”

Sylvain thinks about Felix’s soft, small voice when he said goodbye the night before and he thinks his crush makes a lot of sense. Not that he has a crush. 

“That doesn’t even count, anyway,” he compromises. She snorts.

“Okay, fine.” She slides the pizza in the oven and wipes her hands off on her apron to pull out her phone. “Count this.”

Sylvain leans over her shoulder at full attention while she pulls up Annette’s profile, opens her photos, and scrolls through. Annette’s cute enough — her smile could brighten the whole city and her diy projects are pretty cute — but nothing takes his breath away quite like the dark, blurred shape in the background of nearly half her photos.

_ “Wow,” _ he sighs.

“Right?” Ingrid chuckles, “He’s like bigfoot.”

“Are you talking about  _ Felix?” _ Sylvain and Ingrid both jump at Ashe’s voice from directly over Ingrid’s other shoulder.

“Yes, do you know him?” Ingrid asks.

Ashe nods. “Yeah, he hates having his photo taken.”

Sylvain grasps for anything to get this conversation over with. He goes for the classic. “This doesn’t help his not-a-murderer case.”

She shoves her phone back in her pocket. “He said he wasn’t a murderer.”

_ “A murderer?” _

“So?” Ingrid flicks Sylvain’s nose and he grimaces. “Uh, rude. And besides, that sounds a lot like something a murderer would say.”

She doesn’t even look at him when she wrecks his whole world.

“That sounds like something someone attempting to sabotage a budding relationship would say.”

Sylvain chokes.

“That’s what I  _ thought.” _

“Why are you talking about Felix? Sylvain, are you dating him?” Ashe asks. Ingrid smirks. Oh no.

“Sylvain loves him,” she says.

_ “What?!” _

“Oh!” Ashe’s entire face lights up, “That’s lovely! Felix is difficult to get to know, but he’s very kind.”

_ “I don’t love h —” _

“Do you know him well, Ashe?” Ingrid interrupts.

“Um, kind of?” he thinks for a moment before responding, “I know Annette better, he usually just reads the books I recommend even if he doesn’t really like them.”

“Would you say he’s a murderer?”

_ “Ingrid!” _

“A murderer?” Ashe  _ laughs, _ the asshole, “No. I think he just likes swords.”

“Well, Sylvain, there you go!” Ingrid shoves him playfully, “He just likes swords.”

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t learn much more from Ashe; the two of them are sent on deliveries and their paths don’t cross until much later, when Ashe asks if he can stay late to earn more in tips. Sylvain tells him he already took his share and runs out the door before he figures out he’s lying. 

Now he’s sitting in his car a few blocks away from the restaurant, parked on the side of a residential street, fucking around on his phone while he decides what he wants to do with his suddenly free night.

He has options: he could go home and eat a bag of chips, he could go prowling for a little something or someone, or he could keep scrolling back in his messages with his newly renamed contact and overthink everything he says.

> **Me:** hey what’s up
> 
> **Felix:** nothing. why 
> 
> **Me:** just wondering
> 
> **Felix:** i see
> 
> **Me:** i heard u know ashe 
> 
> **Felix:** how do you know ashe
> 
> **Me:** he works with me and ingrid!
> 
> **Felix:** i thought he worked at a brunch place
> 
> **Me:** yeah he does that too
> 
> **Felix:** wtf how many jobs does he have
> 
> **Me:** just the two since he scored a raise at the pizza place
> 
> **Felix:** that you gave him
> 
> **Me:** haha yeah
> 
> **Felix:** well good. he deserves it
> 
> **Me:** i’m glad we agree ;)

It’s been a few minutes since Felix’s last response, and since then Sylvain has realized something very important.

He’s bad at this.

He’s just awful. He had it. He made it work. But now he’s living on the edge and that edge is sharp and precarious and it’s a deep, dangerous dive from one night stand to friend where the bottom of the pit is either soft and cozy or full of piercing spikes ready to gut him for daring to take the leap or, if he’s lucky, both!

So the conversation is frozen, because Sylvain doesn’t know how to act between planning-to-ghost and friends. Fuck, he’s really blowing this. He has to say something. 

> **Me:** sorry i called you a murderer btw

Well that was a terrible decision.

His phone buzzes almost immediately.

> **Felix:** i don’t care

Yep! A terrible, terrible decision.

> **Me:** sorry :(
> 
> **Felix:** i said i don’t care
> 
> **Me:** what can i do to make it up to you :(((
> 
> **Felix:** ??? i don’t care??????
> 
> **Me:** what’s ur favorite food i’ll bring it over and i’ll apologize in person
> 
> **Felix:** stop trying to apologize
> 
> **Sylvain:** ok :(

At least he didn’t fall into the spikes. His saving grace, his guardian angel, Felix only let him trip over the precipice to feel the sinking rush of the fall and pulled him back out before he could get killed. How merciful.

His phone buzzes again.

> **Felix:** and i’m craving kebabs

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t want to look desperate, so he just grabs some of literally everything on the menu at the place with the highest ratings on DoorSlash and knocks on Felix’s door laden with beef, lamb, veal, chicken, more beef, flatbread, vegetables, sauces, some stuff he can’t remember the name of, and a package of baklava. He has to kick the door to knock. 

Felix’s eyebrows raise when he opens the door and sees Sylvain carrying several paper bags. Sylvain grins. Felix steps back to let him in.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” Sylvain unloads the food onto Felix’s counter while he speaks, “I know you’re probably pretty mad at me still —”

“What?”

“— and I really appreciate you giving me a chance to apologize. Seriously, I’m —”

_ “What?” _

“— so sorry, please don’t be mad. Please don’t stay mad.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I —” Sylvain swallows, “Please don’t kill me —”

“Holy shit, stop.”

Sylvain stops.

Felix pinches the bridge of his nose.  _ “Why _ do you keep apologizing? I told you I don’t care.”

Sylvain waits a moment before responding. “Uh,” he begins slowly, “I called you a murderer and made you mad?”

A sharp inhale, and then, “I can’t possibly explain how much I don’t give a shit about that.”

Sylvain deflates but, like, in a good way. “You don’t?”

_ “No.” _

It’s quiet. Quieter than before, which is how Sylvain realizes Felix finally got some fucking curtains over his windows. Something warm glows in his heart and he can’t stop the small smile that crosses his face.

“Oh,” he says, “Okay.”

They both stand, not far from one another, but not near, either. Felix isn’t looking at him and he allows himself to take him in; he’s tense, his shoulders fold in on himself, he looks like he’s ready to flee his own home at any moment. Sylvain frowns.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks with as gentle a voice as he can.

“What?” his eyes snap to meet his, “No.”

“Oh, uh, great! Good, um,” he gestures to the bags full of food, “We should, um…”

“Eat,” Felix finishes for him.

“Yeah.”

They reach for the same bag, pull back, and reach for the next bag in tandem. Sylvain chuckles at himself and grabs both the bags, pushing one toward Felix and pulling one toward himself. It takes some maneuvering but finally piles of meat, vegetables, and sauces cover the counter and they’re able to pile paper plates with whatever they want. Felix jerks his head toward his blessedly private living room. Without thinking he presses a kiss to Felix’s temple.

“Um —”

Felix doesn’t wait for his explanation; he turns around and Sylvain follows him, feeling very warm and flustered, to his couch. They sit close enough for their legs to touch. He doesn’t move.

They don’t talk. They don’t fuck, either, and with all Sylvain’s defenses ripped away he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. Felix takes their paper plates to the trash this time and, when he returns, he curls up against Sylvain’s side and relaxes into the arm he wraps around his shoulders. 

Hours later, long after the TV has turned itself off, Sylvain blinks awake. His neck hurts. He shifts to lay down and can barely move.

Felix lays over his chest like a lazy cat, soft and relaxed and so, so content. 

He’s never been much of a cat person, but he remembers something about them lashing out unexpectedly, so he moves slow and gentle, carefully adjusting Felix to lay down on top of him on the narrow couch.

He remembers something else about cats as he drifts back to sleep. Something about how when they trust the people they’re with they’ll relax, cuddle up in your lap, and if you know how to read them their movements aren’t unexpected at all. 

He sinks into the cool press of Felix’s body pushing his into the cushions. He likes that. He’s glad he’s trusted. He’s glad to have a new friend; one he can trust and hold, one he can kiss and not worry about whatever comes next. It’s nice. It’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thank you so much for your kind comments!! it means so much to me
> 
> i finished formatting this just as i got notified my dinner was delivered to my door so i think it might be blessed
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s a bit of sex

Felix wakes up slow. Warm. He knows he’s not in his bed but he’s not entirely sure where he is until he opens his eyes, sees a truly immaculate set of tits, and closes them again.

When he wakes up again it’s to said tits adjusting themselves underneath him, but here’s the problem: he’s warm and comfortable and selfish. He holds tighter. The tits rumble with laughter and settle in and he gets to press his face between them.

When he wakes up a third time it’s to rough fingertips gently carding through his hair, easing him from dreams to consciousness. He takes a deep breath in, sighs it out, and lifts his head to look past the tits to the redhead wearing them.

“Your face looks terrible from this angle,” he informs him. Sylvain laughs again, more openly now that he’s not disturbing Felix’s sleep.

“I could get used to this angle of you,” he quips back. 

Gross. He rolls his eyes and makes to stand but Sylvain, who went through all that trouble to ease him awake, pulls him back against his body, and he’s struck by how grossly domestic this all is.

Ugh.

Felix Fraldarius has lost the battle. Sylvain’s heart beats at an easy pace under his ear and with each pump, each confirmation they’re alive at the same time in the same room on the same couch, he understands more and more how screwed he really is.

Sylvain’s nails lightly scrape against his scalp. He doesn’t purr in response.

Felix Fraldarius has lost. This is going to end in his heartbreak when Sylvain figures out how much of a shithead he is or it’s going to end in his heartbreak when he isolates himself and tears out the single small shadow of summer taking solace in his chest.

Sylvain shifts under him. His dick is hard against Felix’s thigh.

Felix Fraldarius has never been known for making good decisions. He’s never been known for doing things in halves, either.

If he’s gonna get hurt — and he  _ is _ — he’s gonna get hurt on his own terms. Felix Fraldarius makes the decision to fall, to unleash whatever carefully controlled emotions are trying to thrash free, and when everything goes to hell and he’s left alone yet again he can simply blame himself and move on with his life.

Felix shifts over Sylvain. His thigh presses up against Sylvain’s hard dick out of pure, simple coincidence.

Sylvain rocks against him in a way he’s pretty sure isn’t coincidence.

He presses harder, no coincidence needed. Sylvain groans; his hands leave Felix’s hair to ghost down his back and wrap around his hips, pulling him closer and rocking them together. Sylvain smirks when Felix gets hard against his torso. Felix ignores this.

“You’re a great cuddle buddy,” Sylvain says in a seductive tone that should  _ never _ be used for the term cuddle buddy, “I could get used to this.”

Felix climbs the final two inches up Sylvain’s body and takes his bottom lip between his own. He can’t keep listening to Sylvain say stupid shit, but he can listen to the surprised and needy whine that tears through his throat when he rolls his lip between his teeth just on the other side of too much pressure. Felix rocks once more, then twice, and finally Sylvain has had enough and he pulls his jeans open and Felix’s jeggings down and takes them both into one warm, calloused hand.

Later, after their shirts have been hiked up and sweat sheens over their bodies and mixes with the cum on Sylvain’s torso, Felix will open his eyes and see molten gold and a certain inevitability that’s been thrust between his fingers.

But right now he feels more than he sees, and he feels the building heat where their bodies meet and not much more.

* * *

Felix thought he was going to leave.

Felix thought Sylvain was going to leave after he got what he came for the night before, until he got what he came for that Felix so rudely snatched from him by falling asleep halfway through the movie. 

But he didn’t, he got everything he came for and now they’re drinking coffee Felix made with his percolator, which Sylvain is fascinated by, and sitting at his kitchen island made for two. Apparently Sylvain has only ever made coffee from, ugh,  _ pods. _

“Why don’t you just use a coffee maker?” he asks.

“I don’t need six cups of coffee,” Felix tells him. 

“So, what, you only have one or two cups of coffee a day?”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sylvain blinks and looks from him, to his percolator sitting innocently on a trivet, back to him. “How much coffee do you drink?”

Felix shrugs. “Depends on the day. Probably eight or nine cups.”

Sylvain needs a moment to process this. He lets him take his time.

“I thought you said you don’t need six cups of coffee,” he finally says, his words slow.

“I don’t.”

“But you said —”

“I don’t drink them all at once!”

“But,” his eyebrows furrow together. There’s something a bit cute about watching him think so hard. “You have to make a fresh pot every time?!”

Felix makes a face. “I don’t want stale, burnt coffee,” he spits.

“Ah, I see,” he says in the voice of someone who does not see. 

“It’s gross,” Felix continues explaining because he’s helpful like that, “It tastes gross.”

“Uh huh.”

“It does!”

“I didn’t say it doesn’t!” Sylvain laughs and he’s simultaneously relieved and irritated. “I’m not gonna get it. You don’t have to explain it to me.”

This is a lot to ask of Felix.

“What, do  _ you _ like burnt coffee?”

He shrugs. “I just get Sparbucks.”

Felix chokes and possibly dies.  _ “Sparbucks?!” _

“What’s wrong with Sparbucks?!”

“It’s — ugh, nevermind.” 

Felix wills himself to think about something else. Like, anything else, before he really can’t stop. He tightens his grip around his mug, feels the heat seeping through the ceramic. Fuck, he’s gonna start again.

“Can I ask you something about your apartment?” Sylvain asks, breaking the imminent spiral his thoughts were heading down. He grasps onto it like a lifeline.

“Condo,” he corrects, “Sure.”

“Uh, okay, condo.” Sylvain turns in his seat and looks back at Felix’s living room, complete with curtains he decided he  _ definitely  _ needs after last time. “Why don’t you hang some stuff up? Fix up the place?”

Felix blinks. “What’s there to fix up? My walls are perfectly fine.”

“Uh, sure. What about a rug, then?”

Felix looks at his floor. “Why?”

“I just think it’d make it feel a bit warmer.”

“It’d make me need to buy a vacuum.”

“I’m just saying, it’s kind of cold in here.”

“I’m not sure how a rug would fix that. Hang on.”

Felix feels very helpful after he leaves and returns with an enormous blanket draped over his shoulders. Sylvain’s lips part. Felix takes the invitation, kisses him, and pulls him back toward the couch where he bundles them both up under the blanket.

“Better?” he asks.

There’s a pause.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says quietly, like a breath that escapes him. 

“Good.”

If Felix were paying attention, if he knew how to read his own emotions like he knows how to read through online auction descriptions to catch when a seller has no idea what the hell they’re talking about, he would recognize this feeling of comfort and warmth as something close to  _ stability. _ He would recognize that the way he feels at ease around someone he barely knows isn’t normal for him, and he would recognize the innate chemistry that forms and grows when you know someone forever.

Instead he nestles in, satisfied. Until Sylvain says something stupid again.

“It’s just, uh,” Sylvain speaks against his hairline, his lip brushing against a sliver of Felix’s forehead, “Everything echoes a lot.”

Felix leans back. Sylvain’s lips leave his forehead but his hands stay on his thigh and wrapped around his back. Felix blinks.

“What.”

“Don’t get me wrong! It’s like, super hot,” he laughs, “It’s just, uh, a rug would help. You know, with that.”

Felix narrows his eyes.  _ “Why?” _

“It’s okay if you don’t want —”

“No,  _ why _ would a rug help?”

“Oh, uh, it absorbs sound. Like the curtains.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That — okay, whatever, nevermind, it doesn’t matter.”

Felix thinks it might matter. He doesn’t really get it, though. He looks down at his floor. Maybe Annette will help him with a rug like how she helped him with curtains.

Or maybe he should stop decorating his apartment around a guy he’s only seen a handful of times. 

That realization feels like a bucket of slime dumped over his head, cold and sticky and  _ ugh. _ Every point of contact on their bodies, once warm and inviting and innate, feels like a vibrating electric current and he’s too hot and it hurts. He jerks back.

“Hey, uh, are you okay?”

Felix’s eyes snap back to Sylvain’s and away.

“Why the fuck do you even care?” he spits with venom.

Sylvain’s hands leave him as he feels the shock. “What?”

“You don’t care.”

Felix kicks the blanket off and stands — or, well, he tries to. He actually leaves with far too much haste and manages to fuck up using both his legs. Sylvain doesn’t catch him; not that he was expecting him to. His elbow catches him with a spectacular dull  _ thunk! _ and he swears.

_ “Fuck!” _

Fuck, he looks like a moron.

“Uh, are you okay?”

Felix doesn’t look at him. He can’t. “I’m  _ fine,” _ he grits out.

“You should ice that.”

“Since when are you my  _ mother?” _

“Yikes, dude.”

“Just — ugh.” He rises to his feet, slow, clutching his elbow to his side.  _ Fuck, _ that hurt. He shuffles into his kitchen, pulls an ice tray from his freezer, and fucks thatup too with only one hand.

“Let me.”

Felix jumps. He wasn’t expecting Sylvain to follow, nor was he expecting him to help. He shoves the tray toward him and watches with an unreasonable amount of jealousy as he fills a small bag with ice and wraps it in a towel with ease. Felix takes the bag full of ice and hisses; even in a towel it’s a shock against his skin. He relaxes into it gradually, still uncomfortable under Sylvain’s gaze. He doesn’t know why he’s being so quiet. Why the hell is he being so quiet?

“Look, uh, I should go.” Sylvain’s eyes dart from the ice pack to the door. He doesn’t make a move to leave. Felix looks away.

“Fine,” he snaps, “Leave.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Sylvain takes a step away. From the edge of his vision he can see Sylvain hasn’t actually turned. “I know you don’t want it, but I’m gonna give you some advice.”

Felix huffs. It’s as good as an agreement.

“If you want me to leave, then great fucking job.” Sylvain’s voice has lost all its warmth, its welcome. It’s frigid. “But if you want people to stay in your life you need to get some therapy or something. You can’t treat people like this.” 

He meets his eyes again. His hand tightens around the ice pack, but the cold seeping through his fingers can’t quite permeate his own fear and his glacial exterior cracks under the heat.

“Fuck you,” he seethes,  _ “Fuck _ you.”

“Yeah, okay, great. Thanks.”

“You don’t fucking know me.”

“I’ve figured that out.”

He grits his teeth and forces out, “Why do you even care?”

“Why  _ do _ I care?” Sylvain breathes out. 

Nobody cares. He’s terrible, a nightmare of a friend and a disaster of a partner. Sylvain’s better off if he just leaves and stops questioning himself.

The weight of the truth lays heavy in the air, unspoken but understood all the same.

“...What?”

_ “What?!” _

“What did you say?”

“I asked why the hell you care!”

“No,” Sylvain says, “After that.”

Ah. That wasn’t unspoken at all. Felix wishes he could rip his entire mouth off.

“Oh.”

“You’re not terrible — look, it’s not my job to rub your ego. Why did you say that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles. 

Sylvain’s eyebrows raise in a silent question.

“It was stupid, just forget it,” he continues.

“Wh — fine. Fine.”

“I said forget it!” he snaps.

“I said fine!” Sylvain finally cracks. His voice finally raises and he’s gone from ice cold to burning hot. Finally.

Except not finally. Sylvain’s eyes widen in surprise at his own volume and it sends Felix reeling. He takes an instinctual step back. Sylvain looks away and clenches his fists at his sides. 

This time when Felix speaks it’s in defeat. “What?”

“Nothing.” His voice has gone empty. A void.

That sounds suspiciously like a lie. “Nothing,” he says back, tired and heavy.

Sylvain smiles but, just like Felix trying to use the feet he was born with, he fails and it looks more like a grimace. Felix is overwhelmed with the urge to take his ice pack off his elbow and press it against Sylvain’s forehead.

He’s never been good at resisting his dumbest urges.

His attempt at a grin disappears and he blinks at Felix in surprise, his face unreadable.

“I can’t read your mind,” Sylvain finally says, his voice quiet. “I’m sorry. What did I do? Why did you freak out?”

He didn’t do anything. He tried to help. He treated him with kindness. He dared to like him, Felix Fraldarius, in his own home.

“Sorry,” is all he says.

“Do you do that a lot?”

Felix’s lips tighten. “Do what?”

“Freak out.”

Felix thinks for a moment before responding. “I try not to,” he admits. It’s more truthful than he wants to be.

“Do you mind, I don’t know, trying harder?”

It’s a tall order. But he’s not a shithead.

“I’ll try harder,” he promises.

He’s going to eat his words. He’s going to get kicked into the ground and bludgeoned by his own stupid choices. It’s going to hurt the whole way down and he knows. But Felix has always been one to keep his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i realized while i was writing this chapter that i’ve definitely been writing felix as autistic and i just didn’t notice? Like, i HC him as autistic anyway, but i’m sitting here like damn i’m so used to being autistic i completely forget most people don’t live their lives as efficiently as physically possible while missing every social cue so everyone thinks they’re rude and unfriendly lmaooo
> 
> I got stuck on a specific part of this fic for like three days but then fiona apple released a new album so everybody go thank her for this update. Or not
> 
> When I wrote Felix Does Bat Science And Is Kind Of A Dick About It i updated every 2-3 days in the beginning and slowed down around the halfway point when things got more emotional and serious and characters saw more development. The same thing is already happening with this so instead of 2-3 days maybe expect 7-8 between chapters
> 
> Anyway. I never really understood what people meant when they said a fic got away from them but i sure do understand now!
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	8. Chapter 8

So like, Sylvain is stuck between an asshole and a hard place. Or a rock and an asshole. What he’s getting at is it sucks and it’d be real nice if everything could just be easy instead of a pain in the ass.

He full-stop sent Felix the contact for a therapist. They didn’t work out for him, but fuck it, maybe they’ll work for Felix. He made the assumption that after sending that message Felix would ghost him, take offense, cuss him out, whatever it is assholes do.

It’s hard to describe the light he felt in his chest when he thanked him.

“Felix is a really great guy,” Ashe explains between deliveries, “You just have to spell it out to him sometimes. What’s obvious to you isn’t obvious to him.”

Sylvain searches Ashe for deception and hidden agendas. Ashe looks at him as bright and sunny as always. “Spell what out?”

“Okay, let me put it this way. Remember how you said he freaked out of nowhere?”

Sylvain nods. He remembers Felix’s outburst very clearly.

“Well,” Ashe continues, “There was a reason.”

“I asked if he was okay!”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna help him explain.”

Sylvain takes a moment to line up his thoughts before speaking. “It’s not my job to hold his hand through using his words.”

“You’re right, it’s not.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“You’re right, he is.”

“Why —”

“I’m just curious, have you considered getting your own therapist?”

Sylvain gawks. “I did!”

“Uh huh,” Ashe says, voice flat. “Look, Sylvain, you’re my friend and so is Felix. I want the best for both of you.”

“Uh huh..?”

“And sometimes, what’s best for your friends is to make them solve their own problems.”

Ingrid guffaws from behind a shelf.

“Aaaashe!” Sylvain whines, “I thought you loved me!”

Ashe rests a hand on his shoulder and looks at him, expression flat and serious. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

“But —”

“I’ll help you one last time,” he says, “Because I love you that much.”

Sylvain swallows.

“When Felix freaked out out of nowhere, I meant it when I said there was a reason,” Ashe says slowly like Sylvain’s a spectacularly stupid pet. “Ask him what that reason was, and give him time to answer.”

He lets the words hit them, slow and impactful, before responding. “Give him time? Why?”

“He doesn’t always know the answer. He doesn’t always know there _is_ an answer,” Ashe explains, “He’s not exactly the most introspective person.”

“Oh.”

And just like that, the serious weight in Ashe’s face and voice disappears. He lightens up with a sunny smile and claps his shoulder with a lot more weight than Sylvain expects.

“And _you,_ Sylvain, need to remember everyone else lives in their own world, not yours.” He says with glee. “I’ve wanted to tell you that for so long, I feel like a weight’s been lifted.”

Yikes, ouch.

“Ah,” he says.

“Ah, indeed.”

“Oh, you listen when Ashe tells you something?” Ingrid’s head pops out around a metal shelf stacked high with unfolded pizza boxes. “But your oldest pal Ingrid tells you to talk to your fucking therapist about your problems and you’re all _weehhh, but Ingrid! I’m sad!”_

“I don’t sound like that!” He does sound like that. “And you’re my friend!”

She nods toward Ashe who’s just as pleased as he was a few seconds ago. “I like his idea of friendship.”

“You’re both so mean to me,” he pouts. Ingrid snorts. Ashe doesn’t bother responding.

“Whatever you say, bud.”

* * *

It’s been a few days since the, _ahem,_ incident and ensuing therapist exchange, and while Sylvain has thus far resisted the urge to text Felix, the urge still hits him like a damn truck every few hours.

_I delivered to some guy wearing a sword on his belt_ this, _I finished one of the shows Bernie recommended_ that. Ugh.

“No offense, sweetheart,” Dorothea tells him after taking a hearty sip of her bubble tea, “But you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Sylvain says before taking a sip of his own smoothie, “Feel like it, too.”

“Hmm.” She takes another sip while she considers her next words. “Well? What did you fuck up this time?”

Sylvain puts a hand over his heart in fake shock. “Dorothea! Why would you think such a thing?”

“Oh, sweetheart. You fuck everything up.”

He drops the act. _“I_ didn’t fuck it up this time.”

She raises her eyebrows. He heaves a sigh and takes the invitation.

“It’s just,” he groans, “It’s stupid.”

“It always is.”

“I — hm.” Flashes of murderers and their creepy plastic lined walls, silky black hair against dark tartan sheets, and the shine of freshly polished swords flit through his memories. “Where do I even start?”

“Not the very beginning,” she suggests.

He thinks of his dead father who lived far too long. “Oh, fuck no.”

There’s a pause, a moment where the only sound is literally everything else happening around them. Sylvain hasn’t gotten any closer to lining up an effective story when Dorothea speaks.

“Does this have anything to do with the text you just got?”

His entire face jerks toward his phone lying face-up on the table. He taps the screen, sees the message notification, and his finger hovers over it before he tightens his hand in a fist and sets it back on the table.

“How did you know?” he grits out.

“Sylvie, dear, their name is _Don’t Be A Dumbass.”_

This hardly registers. “Why did he text me?” he mutters.

“Fuck if I know.”

He taps the screen again and this time he actually unlocks his phone and stares at the message.

> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** thanks

He blinks at his emotionless screen. “For _what?”_

“So are you gonna explain?”

Every thought and story that he got half in place before everything shattered in an explosive display of _fuck this_ halts just before making it out of his mouth. Instead, he throws his hands up in the air and scoffs, _“Men!”_

Dorothea snorts. It’s unladylike and so, so beautiful. “You’re telling me.”

“I just —” he rubs his temple. Dorothea leans back in her chair and watches the show. “I just don’t get it.”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, so first he’s all snuggly, right?”

“Who?”

“And then he just like, he flips out and gets mad at _me_ for it?”

She stares. “Who’s he?”

“And like,” he takes a deep breath, “I tell him to get therapy, right? And I send him the number of a good therapist.”

“Why?”

“And I don’t hear from him for a few days, and now he just says thanks?”

“What’s he thanking you for?”

“I don’t know! That’s the whole problem!”

Sylvain collapses back in his chair. The hard metal frame pushes into his back. It hurts. It’s definitely gonna bruise.

Dorothea does not care.

“Maybe you should ask.”

He groans. “Feliiiiix.”

“Oh.” Sylvain looks at her as comprehension dawns over her face. “His name is Felix.”

He stares.

“There’s just something about Felixes, you know?” she sighs, wistful. “Never met one that wasn’t weirdly cryptic.”

Like someone sitting in front of him? “How many Felixes do you know?!” he asks instead.

“Hm, just the one I guess.”

“Oh.”

“Actually,” her realization morphs into deviousness as everything centers around them in a brutal implosion of carefully arranged connections, “I think he was at Dimitri’s party.”

Those connections tighten. He’s breathless.

“I definitely saw you talking with him.”

“Oh no,” he breathes out.

Dorothea firmly sets her bubble tea on the table and leans in. “Are you talking about Felix Fraldarius?”

Sylvain realizes something very important.

“I, um,” a long, white string connecting everyone in this damn city lodges in his throat, “I don’t know his last name.”

Yeah, he’s done it. She tries really, _really_ hard to keep a straight face, but he can see the laughter pulling at her lips and crinkling her eyes at the corners.

“You’re worked up over a guy whose last name you don’t even know,” she confirms, voice shaking.

Sylvain smiles and doesn’t bother trying to pretend it’s real.

“I hate you.” He knows. “Dark hair? Crabby? Somehow friends with the sweetest people I’ve ever met?”

He thinks of Annette and Ashe. “Yeah.”

She can’t hold it in anymore. She leans back in her chair and laughs.

“Oh, sweetie. You’re worked up over _that_ guy?”

He pouts.

“Well,” she waves a hand at him, “Hurry up and ask what he’s thanking you for.”

He huffs. She stares. It takes no time at all for him to surrender to her will and shoot Felix a quick text before putting his phone on do not disturb and shoving it in his pocket so he can try to enjoy a nice afternoon with his dear, dear friend.

* * *

Back in his own apartment, with the sun setting and casting a warm glow of oranges and pinks over his bedroom, Sylvain lays on his back and scrolls through their messages from today.

> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** thanks
> 
> **Me:** what are you thanking me for
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** the therapist’s number. I’ve never been good at finding one
> 
> **Me:** o uh. You’re welcome
> 
> **Me:** did you go?
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** their waiting list was really long but they referred me to some student
> 
> **Me:** ah
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** yea
> 
> **Me:** do you like them
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** i think so
> 
> **Me:** o. Good
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** yea. Idk they seem to get it better than other therapists i’ve tried. Thanks
> 
> **Me:** yea uh, you’re welcome. I’m glad
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** we have another meeting scheduled for next week
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** idk if you’re still mad but sorry
> 
> **Me:** it’s ok
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** it’s really not. Don’t say shit you don’t mean
> 
> **Me:** no really it’s ok
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** do you just let everyone walk all over you
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** well i wish i hadn’t sent that. Sorry
> 
> **Me:** it’s ok

Because he has nothing better to do, Sylvain watches Felix start typing, stop, and start again several times until his phone buzzes in his hand several minutes later.

> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** you can say no but do you wanna come over

If Sylvain wants to be honest with himself, which he doesn’t but will for the sake of the world, he does. He wants to run his hands through and tug on Felix’s soft hair, hear his breath catch in his throat when he pulls his head back and runs his teeth down the side of his neck. He wants to see the soft, straightforward Felix he saw before whatever the _hell_ happened.

Then again, if he wants to be honest with himself for a couple more seconds, he doesn’t really want to see mean, closed off Felix. It seems like he’s doing better, but one session with one therapist isn’t gonna change a man.

Oh well, Sylvain’s about to be a dumbass.

> **Me:** yea
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** good
> 
> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** because i wanna see you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I know I said 7-8 days but this chapter just like fell together so. Maybe the next one will take 7-8 days who knows. I should really have a schedule or something but oh well
> 
> this fic now has an alternate title and it's send your faves to therapy
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com)


	9. Chapter 9

At 9:02pm Felix believes with his whole being that Sylvain was fucking with him in a last ditch attempt to get revenge, and he doesn’t blame him. 

He said he’d be there around nine. Felix, with nothing better to do and his thoughts only going down shitty chasms where his life is a nightmare, channels his frenetic energy into an approximation of productivity and he vacuums his new rug, sets out a bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table Annette insisted he buy as long as they were at the store, wipes down his countertops, and when he’s out of shiny surfaces to make even shinier he realizes that Sylvain is late and he’s alone.

With a defeated groan he opens his messages.

> **Me:** he hasn’t shown
> 
> **Annette:** he said around 9!!!
> 
> **Me:** yes. He’s not here
> 
> **Annette:** around 9 and by 9 aren’t the same thing!!!!!!!
> 
> **Me:** oh
> 
> **Me:** when does around 9 end
> 
> **Annette:** i am NOT giving you a panic attack deadline, felix fraldarius
> 
> **Me:** i’m not panicking
> 
> **Annette:** yes you are

Okay, fine. So he’s panicking a little bit. He’s also stupid as fuck so it doesn’t matter and it doesn’t mean anything. 

> **Me:** so
> 
> **Annette:** so stop!! It’s fine!!!!!!

He doesn’t quite trust Annette’s judgement on this one.

Whatever. It’s fine. Sylvain got the last laugh, but the night is still young and so is he, and he’s not going to let it go to waste. He’s got a bottle of wine and a fresh rug and, while he’s not entirely sure how, he can make a fun night out of it. Maybe he’ll invite Annette over.

> **Annette:** no!!!!!!! I’m not driving all the way over there for you to turn me away when ur stupid boyfriend shows up!

There goes that idea. Felix doesn’t respond. Instead he paces around his kitchen. It’s very productive.

At 9:05, which is entirely too late and really pissing him off, he grabs the deep blue paper folder full of worksheets his new therapist handed him at their first meeting several days ago.  _ Try these, _ they’d said,  _ Bring them to our next meeting. We’ll go from there. _ He pages through his options, separates the exercises he’s already completed, and lays out a series to distract himself. 

_ Mindfulness? _ He’d asked,  _ Seriously? _

Dr. Eisner — or Mx. Byleth or whatever — had simply nodded.  _ Just try it, _ they’d said,  _ If you hate it then we’ll try something else. _

He stares at the stupid paper in front of him. Just like in their office, he can feel their emotionless eyes drilling through his defenses and seeing straight to the heart of things.

_ You said your friend gave you my number because you lashed out, _ they’d said.

He’s just as uncomfortable in his kitchen as he was then He glances at the time glowing from his oven. 9:07.

_ You want to fix it, right? _

Of course he does.

_ Well, start here. _

_ Here, _ apparently, is the grand advice to feel better.

He rubs his temples. That’s not it, really; this piece of paper wants him to feel better about  _ himself. _ Which is stupid. He was stupid to commit to this because now he has to do it and he has to fucking do it right.

So he puts a pen to paper.

He’s so absorbed in how stupid this is that he’s mostly forgotten he’s been stood up until 9:25 when there’s a knock at his door. He squints between the time and the sound and very, very seriously considers ignoring it. Unfortunately, as he’s well aware of by now, he’s stupid, so he throws his pen down and drags his feet to the door.

“You’re late,” he says with the door open and Sylvain in view. 

“Huh?” Great. “I said around nine, right?”

Felix closes his eyes and sighs; it seems he’ll have to accept he doesn’t have any fucking idea what around-whatever means. He steps back, Sylvain steps inside, shuts the door behind himself, and takes off his shoes. He’s supposed to be working on non-judgemental thoughts, right?

“Thanks for coming over,” he tries. He finds he  _ is _ grateful he came. Ugh. 

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Sylvain waves his phone, “Thanks for uh, inviting me.”

It’s all very stiff and polite in the way Felix can’t stand and can’t fix. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says.

He doesn’t really know what to do. What he  _ wants _ to do is pull Sylvain’s lips to his and make him forget every nasty word he said and start over with a blank slate, carve translations for every confusing mood swing into Sylvain’s neck with his teeth until they’re both seeing deep, deep reds and moaning into one another.

But he can’t, not like this, so he ignores the betrayal of his half-hard dick and half-gestures to the kitchen instead. 

“Worksheets,” he explains when Sylvain’s eyes catch on the papers spread over the island, “From the therapist.”

“Ah,” he says. “Anything, uh, helpful?”

Unfortunately. “Kind of,” he says instead. He sighs and sets his phone on the counter. “Uh, wait, that’s not right. Yeah.”

Sylvain looks back at him with an expression he can’t quite read. “You’re really trying, huh?”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“Wow.”

And nothing. Their easy chemistry is gone. This is uncharted territory and Felix not only wants Sylvain to let him down and get it over with, but he also wants to fuck it all up and move on with his life and never, ever do this again. His chest tightens at the thought.

“So, uh,” Sylvain shatters the silence, laughing nervously, “I told you I work with Ashe, right? You guys are friends?”

The tightness in Felix’s chest twists. He nods.

“He told me that, uh, I have to kind of like, spell things out for you? Really clearly?”

Felix isn’t sure why that’s important. He doesn’t reply.

“Yeah, right, so like, I’m not insinuating you’re stupid or hiding anything, okay?” Sylvain’s nervous laughter tapers off and now he just looks sad. Or embarrassed. Or something. “I uh, I just need to know.”

It twists further, sharper. “Just fucking ask,” he spits. He grimaces at the venom in his own voice but he can’t quite take it back.

Sylvain reflects his expression. His adam’s apple bobs and he finally says, “When you flipped out the other day what, like, happened?”

He doesn’t get it. He takes a moment to swallow the toxic retort in his throat before answering. “What do you mean what happened?”

Sylvain huffs. “You flew off the handle and cussed at me and you were, like, a huge asshole.”

_ Oh, _ he thinks.

“Oh,” he says.

_ “Why?” _

He looks away. He’s warm. “I don’t know,” he says slowly, “I got too hot, I guess.”

That must be what Sylvain expected; he barely even reacts, just gives him a sad smile and steps back toward the door. “Okay. I should, uh, —”

“Wait.”

Everything’s hot again. Sylvain’s hopes, whatever they are, weigh on him and press on his lungs and, bottom-up, like he’s a tube of toothpaste and Sylvain’s squeezing out the words he blurts out, “I realized I was decorating my entire stupid life around what you wanted.”

And silence. Felix eyes the DBT worksheets covering his kitchen island and wonders which one is supposed to tell him how the fuck to talk to people.

“I wish I hadn’t said that,” he mutters instead, because the single thing he’s managed to retain from a mere three days is to just fucking admit when he has regrets.

“Wh — what?”

His attention snaps back to Sylvain, who must not know what to say either. He sighs and gestures to the rest of his condo.

“You were like,  _ get a rug!” _ he imitates Sylvain’s voice in a half-assed baritone, “And — fuck, this is embarrassing — I started planning what kind of rug to get.”

“Oh.” Sylvain says in a tiny voice he’s never heard before. “You were?”

He tries really, really hard not to overdo his own nervous body language and ends up frozen, instead. “Yeah.”

“You said it was stupid.”

Felix jerks his head in a nod. “It  _ is _ stupid.”

A pause.

“Ah.”

Another pause.

Then, quietly, “I’m sorry,” Felix says.

And then, even quieter Sylvain says, “I’m not always going to know what question to ask.”

_ Always. _

It’s a pressure on his back, pushing him forward into the great unknown where he’ll find darkness or light, but he won’t know until he passes through its craggy entrance.

“Always?” he asks.

Sylvain blushes pinker than he’s ever seen him before. “U — um —”

Felix steps forward, allows the pressure to guide him until their bodies are just a breath apart. He takes all the courage he has and reaches in. “Do you want that? Always?”

His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again. “I — yeah.”

His hand wraps around Sylvain’s collar. He has to make sure. “I’m still learning.”

“I know.”

“I’m an enormous fuck up.”

Sylvain laughs, dry and hollow, “I know a thing or two about that.”

Felix shrugs. Sylvain rests his hand against the small of his back and he leans in, closing the final gap between their bodies. “I…” he swallows. “I want… this.”

Sylvain looks away but his hand doesn’t leave. “I mean it, Felix,” he says, voice quiet. “I fuck up everything. I’ll fuck this up, too.”

“Join the fucking party, then.”

“Are you sure?”

He leans into Sylvain’s vision. “I’m going to say something I really, really don’t want to say.”

Hesitant, Sylvain raises his eyes to meet Felix’s. “What?”

“If you give up now,” he says, breathless in his haste to force it all out, “I’ll be just as fucking stupid and sad as I will be if you fuck it up later.”

“When,” Sylvain corrects.

“I already fucked it up,” he quips. “You get to fuck it up, too. It’s only fair.”

“That doesn’t sound fair at all.”

“Stop worrying about fucking fair and make up your mind.”

Sylvain’s lips are on his before he can begin to question himself, warm and familiar and ingrained in everything he is.  _ Yes, _ he thinks. Sylvain’s body moves against his and he relishes in the push and pull of their torsos and legs.  _ “Yes,” _ he breathes. He pulls Sylvain by the collar toward the ladder to his loft.  _ Yes, _ he paints into Sylvain’s skin with his fingertips and his tongue. He pulls him onto his mattress, wraps his fingers around Sylvain’s waistband and pulls.  _ Yes, yes, yes. _

* * *

Hours later, when the sun peeks through the crack in his curtains and crests over the half wall separating his loft from a plummeting death, Felix realizes with a violent jolt that the space where Sylvain slept next to him has lost all its joy; what’s left behind is a blank expanse of cold sheets and stale air.

He sits up, alone. There’s no telltale signs of shuffling, no running water, no sounds of life aside from his own breathing. He scoots his ass to the ladder and climbs down, the dull stick of his bare feet against the wooden ladder his only company. The rest of his condo is just as empty as the loft. The bottle of wine remains. Sylvain’s shoes are gone, his keys are removed from the counter. No note. He picks his phone up from where it was abandoned the night before; no text. 

Felix stands tall even while the weight of his stupid confession pulls him down through his floor and into a hell of his own creation. 

Stupid. He’s just stupid. He grabs his pen and with a shaking hand he writes  _ stupid _ on his stupid worksheet under the stupid column for stupid assholes and stares blankly at adjacent the column labeled  _ non-judgemental statements. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *circles the angst with a HAPPY ENDING tag with a hot pink highlighter 69 times* LISTEN,
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	10. Chapter 10

Well, he warned him.

Really, Sylvain fucked it all up the moment he said the word _always._ Always is a promise he can’t keep. Always promises a stability he can’t provide. The only real promise he can give is he’ll always let everyone down; he’ll always ruin everything that’s even a little good in his life.

Ingrid asks him why he’s taking the day off. Ashe offers a supportive shoulder if he needs it. He doesn’t reply to either of them. It’s just him and his quart of ice cream against the world. He’ll get over it by himself with cookies and cream and some good, healthy compartmentalization. 

Sylvain’s good at compartmentalization, but turns out he’s really, really bad at being alone. So he contacts the one person he knows can distract him.

> **Me:** bern!!!!!!
> 
> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** sylvain!!!
> 
> **Me:** bern!!!!!!
> 
> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** sylvain!!!!!!!
> 
> **Me:** bern!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** sylvain!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> **Me:** what anime should i watch next
> 
> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** ummmmmm!
> 
> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** do you want something long or short??
> 
> **Me:** short pleeeease
> 
> **Me:** with a happy ending

There’s a pause. Sylvain wonders if he said too much.

> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** what happened

He said too much.

> **Me:** who says something happened! Nothing happened 
> 
> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** does ingrid know about this
> 
> **Bernie** **ʕง•ᴥ•ʔง:** i WILL tell ingrid

Oh, that’s it. He presses the little phone icon. Two rings later, _“Sylvain?!”_

“Bern,” he says, “You wouldn’t.”

_“Oh yes I would!”_ she snaps back, _“Consider it revenge for all the times you sent her after me in college!”_

“I would never!”

_“Liar.”_

Okay, that’s fair. He laughs at his own expense. “C’moooooon.”

_“Spit it out.”_

“Bern!”

“Tell me!”

“There’s nothing!”

_“Fine! How about this,”_ she takes a deep breath before her final offer, _“If you come over right now and tell me what you did, I’ll let you beta my next update.”_

Sylvain’s jaw drops. Like, actually drops. There’s no one in his room to see him look slack-jawed and stupid so slack-jawed and stupid he stays while he lets the offer sink in. She never lets _anyone_ see her writing until she considers it perfect.

“For real?” he asks, voice small.

_“Just come over!!!”_

“Okay, okay. Give me a few minutes and I’ll head out.”

_“Good,”_ she says, _“And you better wear your truth pants. You’re telling me what happened.”_ And she hangs up.

Truth pants. Right. 

* * *

Sylvain pulls up to Bernie’s duplex in a quieter part of town, far enough away that folks don’t crowd the sidewalk but still within walking distance of a market and several convenience stores. Her landlord on the first floor doesn’t mind if her friends park on one side of the driveway as long as he can get in and out to bring his daughter to one of her ten thousand after-school activities which, as far as Sylvain’s concerned, makes him the perfect landlord so he parks, he walks around the house, and he rings the bell.

Bernie’s dog greets him first; he listens as Saber bounds down the stairs and barks at him through the door. Sylvain just laughs.

_“Oh, leave him alone!”_ Bernie yells from inside. A few moments later the deadbolt slides and she opens the door just wide enough for her to speak easily while Saber sticks his pointed, grey nose through the gap. “Don’t let him out,” she says.

“When have I ever?”

She huffs and steps back. He grins and steps forward, knee first, gently pushing Saber away from the door while he wiggles wildly against his legs. 

“Told you,” he says with the door firmly latched and locked behind him. Bernie rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to say something, but Saber decides he’s had enough and pushes past her and up the stairs. 

“Fine,” she grumbles, “Let’s get all the way inside first.”

They climb up the wooden stairs to the open door into Bernie’s apartment, left ajar while she was nearby. Sylvain toes off his shoes and hangs his jacket in the entry before crossing the threshold and closing that door as well. 

She’s waiting for him on her delightfully comfortable couch set against the wall in the middle of the room. She’s really made do with what she has; an ancient television hooked up with an ancient Sintendo sits on a beat up chest of drawers she found on the side of the road that just barely fit in his car. He’s offered to buy her furniture, electronics, whatever she wants, but she wants Sylvain’s father’s money about as much as he does.

She was the lucky one; her father passed when she was young, long before ever Sylvain met her. 

“Sit,” she commands. 

He sits next to her. Saber lazily climbs up and drapes his whole body across the two of them.

“Spill.”

He tries a grin. “C’mon, Bern, I got nothing.”

She waits. Saber wiggles. Sylvain whistles.

“Fine, fine,” he says, “But you gotta show me your update first.”

Then, completely deadpan and monotone, Bernie drops the hardest bomb: “There is no update.”

He gasps. The betrayal, the heartbreak! “How could you do this to me?” he whines.

“You lied first,” she points out.

Damn. “So?”

“Tell me what happened.”

He tries one more diversion. “You’re just gonna steal all my problems and write fanfiction about them.”

“So?”

The tables have turned. “Uggghhhhhh,” he groans. Saber also groans but it’s, like, way cuter and kinda funny. Bernie scratches behind his weird half-folded ears.

“It’s about that boy, isn’t it?” she asks like she didn’t just read his whole mind.

“How did you know?”

“Well, Sylvain,” she says slow, “You said I’d write a fic about it —”

“You write all kinds of fic!”

“— and I _know_ the only fic you read is the smutty kind.”

She’s right. “You don’t know that!”

“Oh yes I do, Sylvain Gautier! Tell me before I call Ingrid!” 

Sylvain is suddenly filled with the vision of past Bernie, shy and scared and reluctant to do anything outside her comfort zone. She may be tearing him apart in a way that exposes everything he wants to keep hidden but _damn,_ he’s proud as well as a little scared.

“Fine,” he mumbles, “But _don’t_ write a fic about this.”

“Talk.”

He does. He tells her all about how Felix flipped out, how he apologized, how he was willing to actually do the work to do better. He tells her about spending the night, kissing, cuddling, talking. He tells her about waking up, terrified, and looking over the soft, sweet asshole sleeping peacefully next to him and knowing, just _knowing_ he’s gonna take the gift he was given and desecrate it. She doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t even really react, just pets her dog and listens.

“Sylvain,” she sighs when he’s finished, “You’re so stupid.”

He looks down at Saber’s long, pointy body instead of at her disappointed face. “Yeah.”

“Okay, maybe you’re not stupid.” She takes a deep breath in, out, and covers his hand petting Saber’s haunches with her own. “But you’re a dumbass.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. There’s no tension, no urgent need to fill it, just silence occasionally punctuated by Saber’s snores. Sylvain doesn’t even try to organize his thoughts; they flit around, frenetic and unattainable, leaving him with a dull buzz that he can sink into.

“So like,” Bernie’s voice snaps him out of the static of his thoughts, “If I _were_ to write a fic about this, do you know what happens next?”

Sylvain doesn’t even think about his answer. “They kill each other on the battlefield in a gruesome display of ironic melancholy?”

A pause.

“No.”

“Oh.”

She squeezes his hand. He forgot it was there. “The main character — that’s you — would swoop in with a grand gesture of love and they make up and kiss and live happily ever after!”

He huffs out a laugh. “Okay, but this isn’t fanfiction.”

Bernie hums. “No, it’s not. You have to get therapy like the rest of us, instead.”

“But I already _got_ therapy!” he whines.

“And did you keep going?”

He can’t even look at Saber when he says his next word. He looks at the floor instead. “No.”

“So,” she says, “If I was stuck in a story and I sent you my outline up to this point, what would you suggest?”

“Giving up and throwing it in the garbage?”

“Saber,” she says, “Get ‘im.”

Saber doesn’t move.

“What’s the point of even having a dog,” she mutters.

“Companionship? Socializing? A reason to go outside daily?”

Bernie ignores him. “Go back to therapy you hypocrite.”

He sighs. “Do I have to?”

“Sylvain.”

He tears his eyes from the floor to meet hers; surprising nobody she can see straight through him, straight into the trauma and the dumb bullshit and the fear and the stubborn asshole hiding inside.

“What did you say to me? When you suggested therapy, you said something about _moving past mistakes_ and _be the person you want to be?”_

“I did say that, huh?”

“You did,” she says, “Take your own advice.”

He pulls out his phone, stares at the dark screen, and looks back at her. “What if it doesn’t work?” 

She shrugs. “Then you try again.”

He opens his mouth, finds he doesn’t have the words to describe the molten rock vibrating in his chest, and closes it again.

“And if you give up again,” she says, “Not only will I tell Ingrid, but I’ll tell _Ferdinand.”_

He gulps. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Ferdinand’s long, meandering monologues ring in his ears. He shudders.

“Fine,” he says before finally unlocking his phone, “But you have to tell me I’m pretty when I fail.”

_“If_ you fail.”

* * *

Later, when the sun firmly hangs in the western sky and shines harshly on Bernie’s warm orange walls and illuminates Saber’s favorite napping spot, Sylvain rests on his back with his head in Bernie’s lap while she plays Ocarina of Rhyme around him.

“You know,” she says after a long stretch of _hya! hya! hya!,_ “You should really apologize for ditching him this morning.”

Sylvain wonders how she knows he was thinking about that. “What if he’s mad?”

“He’ll be a lot less mad if you make it right a few hours later instead of a few weeks later.”

That doesn’t seem right. “You think so?”

“Yes.”

He opens their messages and stares. “What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you get dumped and we get ice cream.”

“Hm.” He looks up at her. “Where do you wanna get ice cream?”

She flicks his nose and returns her hand to the controller at record speed. “Just do it.”

“Hmph.” He turns his attention back to his phone. “Fine.”

> **Me:** hey, i know you probably don’t wanna hear from me right now. I’m sorry
> 
> **Me:** about this morning
> 
> He spends an agonizing several minutes waiting for a response.
> 
> **Me:** i freaked out and left and that wasn’t cool

Read. So Felix opened his phone, saw the messages, and decided to ignore him. Or he opened his phone, _didn’t_ see the messages, and decided to ignore him. Or Felix opened his phone, thought about murdering him, and decided to ignore him instead. Or —

“Stop thinking,” Bernie says, “If you keep hyperventilating you’re gonna mess up my rhythm.”

Easier said than done.

“Just _do_ what you’re thinking of,” she says.

He sighs.

> **Me:** especially because like, i got mad at you for freaking out and not saying why
> 
> **Me:** that was really hypocritical of me
> 
> **Me:** Bern keeps telling me to just say what i’m thinking of saying so sorry if this is tmi
> 
> **Me:** i just. I don’t know. I told you to go to a therapist but clearly i should too. I emailed mine but i have a lot of uh, baggage? I guess? It’s a lot to deal with. I guess that’s why i left
> 
> **Me:** anyway idk i didn’t want you to think there’s anything wrong with you, u know? It’s a me problem that i guess i’m working on now

“Damn, I’m bad with words,” he mutters.

“No, you’re bad with feelings,” Bernie says.

“Damn.”

A few more minutes pass with no reply. Sylvain gives it up as a lost cause.

> **Me:** anyway i’ll leave you alone now. I’m really sorry

He nearly drops his phone when it vibrates in his hand.

> **Don’t Be A Dumbass:** apologize to my face if you mean it.

He drops his phone on his face.

“What? What is it?” Bernie asks.

“He said to apologize to his face,” Sylvain says. Bernie drops the controller on his face.

“You’re gonna do it, right?” she asks, frantic, as she scrambles to move the controller and his phone.

“I — I don’t know —”

“Yes! You do!” She stands and his head drops directly onto the couch. “Go! Get out of my house!”

“Bern —”

“Get! Out! Of! My! _House!”_

* * *

Sylvain’s phone buzzes while he’s driving. He resists pulling it out until he’s parked outside Felix’s building and his heart is choking him in a frantic beat; he’s not sure whether it’s a relief that it’s a response from his old therapist instead of Felix. They sent him a scheduling portal. He swallows his pride and fucking uses it.

And then he’s still there, outside Felix’s building, trying to go against his innate shithead instincts and be a halfway decent dude so, what, so he can get his dick touched?

That’s not it.

He wants to be a decent dude — good, even — because the comforting warmth of Felix curled up against him offers a level of contentment he doesn’t usually get. Felix’s muted laughs and small smiles lighten the weight of regret and guilt after a lifetime of running away and hurting everyone who dared come too close. Felix can’t cure him, can’t reverse his mistakes and can’t singlehandedly dismantle his father’s pizza empire, but he can hold his worthless hand and make him feel like he’s actually worth the effort. 

That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? He’s a hard guy to love by design. He’s crafted a caricature of a sleazy frat boy and added layers of authenticity by frosting it with a soft smile and decorating it all with an approximation of kindness. It’s easy to be unlovable; it’s hard to be unloved.

That got a little too deep. He swings his door open to face his challenges, to feel rays of sunshine crest over his carefully crafted walls, and to not keep thinking about whatever _that_ was. It’s a short walk to Felix’s building if he can just move his fucking feet.

_One step at a time, buddy,_ he thinks to himself, _Just one step at a time._

He lifts his foot. He completes a step. And another. And another. And the elevator takes too long. And when did he start running? When did taking the stairs get faster than the elevator? When did he stop laughing at unit number 420?

He doesn’t even realize he knocked until the door opens and Felix looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and he realizes very quickly that he smells real fucking bad.

“I, uh,” he says between inhales. Fuck, he’s so out of shape, “I ran.”

Felix stares with an expression he can’t read, but he’s pretty sure it’s not disgust. He licks his lips and continues.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes narrow. Sylvain, master of walls, who has been training for this moment his entire life, climbs over the bricks and the mortar and hopes against everything he’s ever believed about himself that he lands on his feet.

“For everything.” He takes one last heaving breath and stands up straight. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“For everything,” Felix clarifies.

“Yes.” Felix moves closer to him. He continues. “I’m sorry I left this morning.” Another inch gone. “I’m sorry I thought you were a murderer.” And another. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I thought you were a murderer.” They’re close. So close. “I’m sorry for every shitty thing that’s ever happened in your life.” Felix’s hands, familiar, fist the collar of his shirt. Nearly against his lips he says, “I’m sorry I fucked it all up.”

And then Felix crashes into him, pulls him back into his orbit, elliptical or circular or whatever the fuck it is; all Sylvain knows is he’s at the center wearing his _fucking_ skintight jeggings and oversized hoodie and smelling like iron and fire and all he can ever hope to be is Felix’s wheel of fate. That’s okay, though. He’d probably do just about anything to feel himself curve against Felix’s body until the world crashes down.

“Do you forgive me?” he whispers into their kiss.

Felix bites down on his lower lip. “What the fuck do you think?”

He thinks that if this is what falling feels like — terrifying, invigorating, sanguine, sentimental — he only ever wants to feel it once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Play fire emblem echoes: shadows of valentia
> 
> so here's the thing about me: i like to finish things. i get to the home stretch of things and i'm like hmmm, i think i will finish this! so i sat down and wrote what will be the second to last chapter and that's why i'm updating again seventeen hours later. wheeeee!
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	11. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [THANK YOU CHERRY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/pseuds/cherryconke) for looking over this!!! It really means a lot to me!
> 
> There’s sex in the second section! If that’s not your bag you can either skip ahead to the next section when you want or skip the second section entirely. Take care!

Felix knows with complete certainty that he hasn’t quite forgiven him. Not yet; not with cold sheets so fresh in his mind. But if he reaches in, past the cloud of fear and into a garden of authenticity, he wants to. He wants to stay in Sylvain’s orbit, to follow his movements like a sunflower desperate for the light, to take root in the righteous and rotten soil of his heart. He admits the first later in the evening after their second round of makeup sex in two days.

“Oh,” Sylvain says, resigned. “That’s fair.”

“Don’t look like that.” Felix sighs and lays his head back down on Sylvain’s arm. Their legs tangle together under the sheets and his arm wraps around Sylvain’s torso, soaking up his warmth. “But don’t do that again.”

He listens to the slowing beat of Sylvain’s heart and his steady breathing. Traces patterns over his ribs with his fingertips. He feels, rather than sees, Sylvain tense up.

“What if I do?” he asks after several minutes, small and scared. 

Felix shrugs.

“I’m a huge fuck up,” Sylvain continues, “I’ll do it again. I’ll hurt you again.”

Felix breathes in deep and lets it out slow. “Well,” he says, “Will the make up sex always be good?”

Sylvian shifts under him. He angles his head and meets his confused stare. “Um —”

“Stop thinking so much. We’ll figure it out later. Relax.”

Sylvain’s hesitant. Felix grumbles and uses the last of his energy to climb on top of him and push him back down; force him to chill. It doesn’t work very well.

“I said to  _ relax.” _

“I really do want to try,” Sylvain says suddenly. 

A lot of truths are coming out tonight. “Me too.”

“But I’m gonna fuck it up.”

Felix sighs. “Join the club.”

There’s a pause. Sylvain finally fucking lays back down and wraps his arms around Felix’s back. He sinks into it, the warmth and the pressure and the tits, and he hopes Sylvain’s sinking, too.

“...Are you sure?”

Well there goes that. Felix props himself up with his elbows on either side of Sylvain’s head and stares him dead in the eye. “No. I’m not.”

A wry smile twists across Sylvain’s face. “Me neither.”

He’s sick of this conversation. Rather than think up some response that’ll only lead them further down this fucking depressing path, Felix leans in and presses their lips together, eases into the kiss with a gentleness that’s mostly foreign. He wants it to say what he means, not whatever stupid words tumble out of his mouth.

“It’s fine,” Felix mumbles. “Everything will be just fucking fine.”

Felix knows with complete certainty that he hasn’t quite forgiven him. Not yet; not when it hasn’t even been 18 hours since he woke up in a cold bed. But he’s learning that’s okay. Forgiveness and trust don’t have to be all or nothing, an open embrace or a cold shoulder. They can be something that ebbs and flows, that comes in like the tide and washes away loose stones and debris or leaves the shore littered with starfish. A give and take as they come to know one another, their weaknesses and strengths, their fears and their histories. 

“I hope so,” Sylvain says.

No, Felix hasn’t quite forgiven him. But he’s ready to learn how, and for what may be the first time in his life, he knows that if he really puts in the work, he can have everything he’s ever wanted.

* * *

They keep learning. About each other, about themselves. About their friends and families and pasts and potential futures. They learn about dreams, about paths and plans, about what actually makes a home.

“You know I love you in this,” Sylvain says. He runs a freckled hand underneath his t-shirt Felix just so happened to have picked up off the floor and ghosts his touch against Felix’s skin. “But I don’t think you can wear it to Dimitri’s party.”

No shit. Felix ignores his touch and sips his coffee. The collar on his shirt slides down and he presses his lips against Felix’s newly exposed skin. He shudders.

“Or, hm.” Sylvain grins, “Is this some sort of possessive thing? Should I wear one of yours?”

Felix smirks. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, would you?”

Felix has seen Sylvain in tight clothing before. He’s seen him in  _ nothing _ before; he’s seen him dressed up and down and everything in between, he’s seen him with his fingers in his own mouth and wrapped around Felix’s dick and digging into his skin, holding on with everything he has, leaving little indents behind from his blunt nails. 

What can he say? He likes seeing new things.

“Yes,” he says, “Don’t rip it, though.”

Sylvain’s hands against his bare skin press in, press him forward and against the edge of the counter, hold him together and promise to take him apart if he continues the path they’re tracing around his body to his hips and his groin. 

“What if  _ you _ rip it, though?” Sylvain’s breathy voice fills his ear, his body.

“Hurry up,” Felix snaps, but his voice has already betrayed him. The words come out too fast; rushed, jumbled, tripping over one another in anticipation, and Sylvain  _ knows. _ He can feel it in his victorious smile against his neck and he can especially  _ see _ it in his slow strut back to that stupid fucking ladder. He counts the seconds after he disappears to the loft, tries to wait.

“So should I wear one of your band shirts, or —”

Felix curses to himself and climbs up after him.

Sylvain has already managed to pull one of Felix’s shirts on and over his chest. It’s hanging on for dear life; Sylvain isn’t  _ enormous _ by any means, but the fabric clings to his broad shoulders and barely even touches his biceps. It molds to his torso, its seams pulling over the broadest part of his chest and forces him to turn in slow, small movements.

“What do you think?” he asks with his stupid cocky grin.

“I like it.” That’s an understatement. “You should wear it more often.”

Sylvain’s expression turns calculating and smoldering all at once. It matches the slow movements of his body as he crawls closer, the fabric pulling over every muscle, clinging over his chest, moving tight against him. Felix swallows. 

“You like it?” He’s just out of reach and chooses to fucking torture Felix by pressing his tits together. “Maybe I’ll wear it tonight —”

Felix cuts him off with his mouth against his; his hands run up Sylvain’s inhumanely warm torso and under his own shirt and he pushes him onto his back. 

“I don’t want to hear about where you’ll wear my shirt,” he growls, low, “I just want you to take it the  _ fuck _ off.”

“Yessir!”

And it’s off. Maybe torn, he doesn’t really care; Sylvain’s underneath him, lit only by the barely-there glow of the evening sun coming through the windows and casting shadows that cross the curve of his lips and the stupid beard he’s insisted on growing out. Felix leans in and focuses on the heat between them, on Sylvain’s hands running up his thighs with a practiced expertise he’s come to appreciate and love.

_ Wait, love? _

“Are you hard?” Sylvain breathes, unaware of Felix’s inner turmoil. He shoves it down for later Felix to deal with.

“Not yet.” Sylvain tightens his grip just below his ass, squeezing into the sensitive skin and sending electric currents up and down his body. His breath hitches. “Make me.”

It’s not difficult. Sylvain’s hand travels up his sides and through his hair and he pulls at the roots just hard enough to make him gasp. It’s enough to make him drop the games, the build-up, and to lean in with everything he has and grind their bodies together. Sylvain controls him like he’s nothing more than a toy, tightening his grip and guiding Felix’s lips and teeth down his scruffy jaw to his neck and back up when he wants to drink him in again. 

He loves it.  _ He loves it. _

“Sylvain,” he breathes, “Sylvain.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you,” he forces out.

“You have me.”

Sylvain pulls him in for more,  _ more, _ and Felix takes and takes and pushes and pulls. The excited vibrations in the friction between their bodies comes to life and drags him in, the two of them together, forgetting all about schedules and parties in favor of Felix’s thigh pressing against Sylvain’s dick. 

It’s been a year since this all started. A  _ year,  _ and they can still fall together like this. Felix slicks up his fingers and presses, gentle, against Sylvain’s hole, drinks in his sighs as he takes his time massaging the rim, easing himself in, building a promise of pleasure and prosperity as Sylvain relaxes and he slips inside and strokes his prostate. Pressure and release, pressure and release, until Sylvain’s thrusting down on his hand and chanting his name.

_ “F — Felix.” _

Sylvain’s hands find him, they wrap around his dick and stroke and he’s coming undone, they’re coming undone, thrusting toward release. Felix’s other hand takes Sylvain’s dick, presses under the head where it makes him cry out. He  _ does _ and it’s one — two — he thrusts in time with his own hands and Sylvain knows what’s coming.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he chokes out around his own heavy breaths, “That’s it, come for me.”

Sylvain’s words grab him, pull him under and overwhelm him. His orgasm pulses through his body in a bold current and he loses himself in the wave and their contours. As he comes back to himself he’s distantly aware of Sylvain grinding down on his hand, gasping, and he uses what little awareness he has to curve his finger and bring Sylvain over the edge with him.

“Shit,” he says.

Felix eases out of him and collapses into his side. “Shit,” he agrees.

“We still need to go to the party.”

“Do we?”

Sylvain presses a kiss against his forehead and says, “Yeah, but we can be late.”

* * *

They’re late.

Sylvain shoots off a few texts before the short drive over to give a heads up; Bernie tells him she has a deadline and can’t make it, everyone else tells him to keep it in his pants. 

Felix reads each text out loud as they come and hides the looming shadow of  _ I love you _ behind teasing jabs, but roaring from the back of his mind is a voice screaming  _ tell him! Tell him you fucking moron! _

And so, outside Dimitri’s enormous house, the first place they discovered just how far deep their connections go, Felix freezes and grabs Sylvain’s hand.

“Wait.”

Sylvain startles and turns to him. “What? Is everything okay?”

“I —” the words catch in his throat. “Can we talk? Just for a minute?”

Something dark crosses Sylvain’s face. Disappointment? Fear? “Yeah,” he says. Felix realizes he hasn’t returned his gesture and squeezes his hand once.

“It’s not bad,” he says, “I just want to talk for a minute. In private.”

Sylvain’s expression lightens and, finally, he squeezes Felix’s hand back. “Whatever you want.”

They step to the side, away from the slow trickle of traffic into Dimitri’s enormous house, underneath an ornamental tree that casts dappled shadows across Sylvain’s face. He can’t look directly at him; he looks at their entwined hands, instead.

“I, um, I realized something.”

He doesn’t look at Sylvain’s expression. He  _ can’t. _ So he just continues and hopes with everything he has that he’s not about to fuck everything up again, far beyond repair, far beyond where he can reach.

“I’ve never told you I love you.”

There’s a sharp inhale. He waits for it to drop, for Sylvain to shake their hands apart, get in his car and drive away, for Sylvain to apologize and tell him he just doesn’t feel the same way. It doesn’t. He takes a breath and finds it’s shaky, heavy; he’s on the verge of tears.

“I mean,” and the tears start. Shit. “I do. Obviously. But you can’t read my mind and — you know. So, uh, I love you.”

Sylvain tries to say something but his voice catches. Felix looks up and his heart is so impossibly full at the sight of Sylvain’s pink, freckled face, and with a jolt he realizes Sylvain is crying, too.

“I — fuck,” Sylvain laughs at himself. “Sorry, I just —”

Felix wraps his arms over his shoulders and around his neck before the sob escapes his throat and holds him close. He’s shaking and counting his breaths, all while Felix gently runs his fingers through his hair. He’s fucking up Sylvain’s stupid, sexily tousled hair. He thinks he prefers it this way, anyway.

“Why?”

Felix hasn’t heard his voice so small since the night they promised to just  _ try. _ “You’re seriously asking me that?”

“Felix…”

He holds on tighter; Sylvain needs an anchor, needs to be held down, needs to understand. “I love you.”

“But  _ why?” _

“I love you.”

Sylvain tries to pull away but Felix doesn’t let him go.

“Stop questioning it,” he mutters.

“But —”

“You’re telling your therapist about this.”

A pause.

“...Okay.”

They stay like this a little while longer; the garden lights come on, the party inside seems to be in full swing, and they hold onto one another and speak with silence.

Finally, so quiet Felix almost misses it, Sylvain says, “I love you, too.”

“You aren’t just saying that because you think you’re supposed to?” Felix asks, just as quiet.

“No.” He takes a deep breath. “I really, really love you, Felix.”

He expected the moment to be explosive, to float away or to fall deep, deep down. It isn’t. Instead it’s grounding, filling; he can feel every pebble under his shoes, every breeze through his hair, every plane where their bodies press together. And it’s all just right.

“I love you,” Felix says again. 

“I love you, too.”

_ “Hey!” _

Felix refuses to jump apart; he lets Sylvain pull away slow and turn to greet his friends — in many cases,  _ their _ friends.

“Ingrid!” Sylvain’s voice is still weak. “Lovely to see you.”

She walks toward them with purpose, glaring suspiciously between the two. “Why are you making out in the driveway? And why do  _ you _ sound like you’ve been crying?”

“Uh, funny story.” Felix entwines their fingers and squeezes Sylvain’s hand to give him strength. Sylvain continues. “I have!”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

She narrows her eyes at him. Felix isn’t even being scrutinized by her, but he feels the intensity of her judgement all the same. “Wow, you’ve actually been crying,” she says.

“He has,” Felix confirms.

“What the hell — do I wanna know?” 

Even with tears barely drying on his face, Sylvain’s smile could illuminate the city. “I don’t know, do you wanna know how much we love each other?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

“This conversation is done,” Felix says. “Go. Let’s go inside.”

“Sounds great to me,” Ingrid says.

Inside is just as raucous as the last time they were here; despite getting in over his head every single time he throws a party, Dimitri continues inviting the same people and allowing them to bring any guests they want. The plus ones aren’t the problem, though.

“Go! Go! Go!” Caspar chants at poor, poor, poor Ignatz who seems to be, surprisingly, handling his alcohol perfectly fine.

“How is he not dead?” Felix mumbles.

Sylvain looks. “Caspar or Ignatz?”

He shrugs. “Both, I guess.”

_ “Felix!” _

Annette’s voice erases any worry he had about the two and reminds him that, unfortunately,  _ he’s _ the guest of honor tonight, and now everybody knows he’s here. She barrels into him and wraps her arms around him in a bear hug that nearly knocks him off balance. Ashe follows and actually knocks him off balance and flat on his ass.

“You’re both drunk,” Felix grunts from underneath the two.

“So?”

“So get off.” 

Ashe rolls off, laughing, but Annette’s stubborn. He tries to push her off but she’s a bottle of condensed superhuman strength and she doesn’t move.

“Annette.”

“No!” she whines, “I haven’t seen you in  _ weeks.” _

“You’re seeing me now!”

“Aw, let her give you a hug,” Sylvain says with a wink, “She loves you!”

“Sylvain!” Ashe says suddenly. Everyone looks at him. “I’m drunk.”

Sylvain nods. “Yes. You are.”

“And guess what?”

“What?”

He grins. “I’m not scared of you anymore.”

Annette starts laughing so hard she loses her grip and Felix is able to push her off. Sylvain just blinks.

“You were scared of me?”

“Yes. Yes I was.”

Ingrid snorts.

“Wh —”

“But I’m not anymore!”

“Why were you even scared of him?” Felix asks, “He’s a dweeb.”

“Hey!”

“You  _ are _ a dweeb,” Ingrid says. 

“He’s scary!” Ashe whines, “You guys don’t — Caspar! Take off your binder if you’re gonna do that!” He scrambles to his feet, conversation forgotten, and runs into the other room where Caspar’s situated upside-down and ready to do a keg stand.

“Am I really that scary?” Sylvain asks once he’s gone. Ingrid snorts.

“No.”

“Why —”

And then, because Dimitri’s parties can apparently get even more chaotic, a familiar voice echoes around the already echoing foyer.

_ “You!!!” _

Felix’s gut sinks. “Oh no.”

Stomping into the room from another world is a man around Felix’s height, with Felix’s complexion, and with Felix’s hair color growing into natural waves falling out of a bun on the back of his head, and he is  _ furious. _

“So you’re telling me,” Glenn has to shout above the noise, or maybe he’s just shouting because Felix deserves it, or maybe he’s just shouting because he’s a little drunk, “That I was supposed to find out you have a  _ boyfriend _ from Dimitri inviting me to a party for your fucking  _ one year anniversary?!” _

Felix grimaces.

“Sorry, are you —”

Sylvain doesn’t have a chance to finish; Dorothea hip checks a bewildered Glenn out of her way, does a little flourish, and in a melodic sing-song voice she says, “The birthday boys are here!”

“It’s not their birthday!” Ashe shouts from the other room.

Felix is getting a headache.

“Relationship birthday, whatever.” She takes a sip of wine. “Happy relationship birthday!”

“I just can’t  _ believe,” _ Glenn says after regaining his footing, “That not even  _ Ingrid _ told me.”

“Wow!” Ingrid snatches Dorothea’s glass and takes a healthy swig, dodging Glenn’s judgement. “I suddenly have something to take care of!”

And she runs off, dragging Dorothea with her.

“Were they  _ holding hands?” _ Sylvain says.

“They were,” Annette says in awe.

“Wait.” Felix finally stands, brushes himself off, and looks at Glenn, “You know Ingrid?”

Glenn fixes him with a dead stare. “You’re so stupid.”

“Wh —”

“Sucks to suck!” Glenn struts up between him and Sylvain and holds out his hand. “Hello, Felix’s boyfriend!”

“Um —”

_ “I _ am Felix’s brother, who he loves very much and whose phone calls he’s been ignoring for a year and a half.”

Felix glares. “It hasn’t been that long.”

“Oh, my dear Felix,” Glenn says over his shoulder, “We haven’t spoken since before you moved out of dad’s house.”

Felix opens his mouth to protest, closes it, tries again, and finally says, “I guess that  _ was _ over a year ago.”

“Get a watch, dude.” That won’t do anything and Glenn fucking knows it. He turns his attention back to Sylvain. “Make sure he answers my fucking calls, yeah?”

“Um, yeah —”

“Great! Bye, losers!”

“Are you fucking —”

Glenn does not stick around to hear what he’s fucking; he claps Sylvain on the shoulder, flicks Felix on the nose in an impressive display of acrobatics, and pushes back through the crowd to sit with his cool friends or whatever. He turns to give Felix his finger and his thumb in the shape of an L on his forehead before he’s swallowed by the crowd.

“Fucking asshole,” Felix mumbles.

“That was your brother?”

Felix turns back to Sylvain. “Yeah. Why?”

“Does he even know my name?”

“No idea.”

“Oh. Well,” he shrugs, “You win some you lose some, I guess.”

Sylvain wraps his arm around his waist and brings him closer, steady and warm and  _ loving. _ He leans his head on his shoulder and grins despite himself. If anybody notices them being gross they don’t say anything.

“Let’s say hi to everyone,” Sylvain says.

“Do we have to?” Felix asks.

Sylvain squeezes him closer for just a moment and says, “No, but I want cake.”

“Gross.”

He laughs and steers them toward the kitchen. “Whatever you say.”

“Hmph.”

Despite being separated from the roar of the main room, the kitchen is still loud and crowded with everyone’s voices bouncing off the tile and plates and silverware scraping against one another. In the center of the enormous room is a matching enormous island; its dark granite counter is covered in snacks and pastries on platters and tea stands, and in the middle of it all is a pyramid of cupcakes in varying colors and flavors. Sylvain whistles.

“Damn,” he says, “He really went all out.”

“Dimitri would not accept anything less.” Dedue whisks around them wearing oven mitts and carrying a full sheet of cookies. “Be sure to thank him,” he says with a pointed look at Felix.

“That will not be necessary!” Dimitri follows close behind wearing a decorated eye patch, a needlessly formal suit, and his golden retriever smile. “I am thrilled to celebrate my friends even if, ah —”

“You spend two days cleaning?” Dedue offers.

“Ah, yes, that.”

“Thank you, Dimitri,” Sylvain says. He leans over the counter and retrieves a dark chocolate cupcake with fluffy white frosting, “It’s lovely.”

“Oh, I’m glad!” He looks between them and opens his arms. “And happy anniversary!”

Sylvain takes that as an invitation for a group hug and presses the three of them together despite Felix’s sputtering protests while Dedue silently pokes fun at them. He’s entirely too warm and claustrophobic for this level of contact.

“Can we stop?” he says with his voice muffled between the two. They both laugh because they love to torture him and Sylvain finally pulls back, bringing Felix with him. 

“You love hugs!” he says. 

Felix glares at him. Sylvain is entirely unconvinced of his anger and takes an enormous, spiteful bite of his cupcake. Felix rolls his eyes and taps his hand up just as he pulls away, smushing the frosting against, and possibly up, his nose. Sylvain barks out a laugh.

“You wanna clean that up for me?” he asks with a wink.

“Not in the kitchen,” Dedue says. 

“Aw, Dedue —”

“Not in the kitchen, got it,” Felix says before grabbing Sylvain by the arm and leading him to the very bathroom where they met the last time they were at one of Dimitri’s enormous parties. Someone wolf-whistles at them on the way out. Felix is pretty sure it was Dedue.

“Aw, Felix, I know how to clean my own face!” Sylvain whines after Felix shuts and locks the door behind him. 

“Less talking,” Felix says. “Stand still.”

“Is everything o —”

He leans closer. “I said stand still.”

Sylvain, who’s evil and lives to spite him, cracks into a grin. “Is that really what you want?”

Felix doesn’t respond. Instead, Felix leans closer still and scrapes his teeth against Sylvain’s upper lip, brings it between his own. Sylvain doesn’t even have the decency to quit smiling, nor does he have the decency to make everything that touches his skin taste like him.

“Ugh,” Felix groans, “That’s just pure sugar.”

Sylvain laughs. “You know what frosting is, don’t you?”

He wipes his mouth off with his sleeve. “Just wash your face. Gross.”

“Hmm.” Sylvain snakes a finger through Felix’s belt loop and pulls him back in and Felix, like the lovestruck dipshit he is, just lets him. “You told me to stand still.”

“I changed my mind.”

Sylvain doesn’t care. He kisses Felix all over again. Properly. It’s sickly sweet and grainy and sticky and frosting gets on Felix’s nose from Sylvain’s and there’s a little bit left in his scraggly mustache. When they pull apart the taste lingers.

“Still gross,” he says.

“Damn. Thought I could change your mind.”

His hands leave Felix’s hips. He doesn’t need to chase them for more; when they’re done combing through his facial hair (and, disgustingly, a little bit up his nose) for any remaining frosting and washed and dried they return and they take Felix’s hands. It’s reliable. Comforting.

They return to the party —  _ their _ party — through the kitchen, avoiding Dedue’s tired stare and grabbing drinks before anyone can stop them, and into one of the many entertaining rooms that Felix once upon a time knew the names of. Music fills the air, Caspar’s doing his keg stand safely, Glenn’s sitting with some friends Felix doesn’t know very well, and Annette is deep into a conversation with Ashe. Felix nudges Sylvain in their direction.

“I’m just saying,” Ashe says as they approach, “Maybe it’s not a great idea to get a pet when your apartment doesn’t allow pets.”

“But I  _ want _ one!” Annette whines.

“What’s this about a pet?” Sylvain asks.

“Annette wants a cat,” Ashe says.

Felix downs half his whiskey pouch and asks, “Can you even take care of a cat?”

Annette pouts. “Yes!”

“You can barely cook for yourself.”

“I don’t need to cook for a cat!”

_ “Don’t let her get a cat!” _ Glenn yells. 

_ “Stop eavesdropping!” _ Annette yells back.

_ “No!” _

“You’re getting a  _ cat?” _ Everyone turns to look at Ingrid as she walks up with a plate full of snacks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Nobody believes in me!”

“Just wait a little bit,” Ashe says, “There’s always cats. I’ll have Christophe help you when you’re ready.”

_ “Fine,” _ she huffs.

“Don’t know why you’re in a hurry,” Felix says, “Seems like a pain to me.”

“Have you ever thought about just getting a cat?” Annette asks. Felix shrugs.

“I don’t want to deal with one in my condo,” he says.

“Oh, so, you’ll get one when you move?”

“Maybe.”

“What about when you move in together?” asks Ashe. Sweet, kind, not at  _ all _ innocent Ashe.

Sylvain laughs. “Maybe!”

_ “WHAT?!” _

Felix is just as shocked as Glenn, who can’t seem to mind his own fucking business. “What?”

“Um — I mean —”

“What?” Ingrid says.

“Eventually, of course — not anytime soon!”

Eventually. In the future.

_ In the future. _

“Let’s talk about this later,” Felix forces out through his own overwhelming shock. Sylvain smiles gratefully and the conversation moves on thanks to Annette’s talent at coming up with anything at all and Ashe’s talent to be drunk enough to talk about everything. 

The future. It’s a lot to ask, a lot to hope for and dream for, but it’s nice. Waking up to Sylvain’s smile, his soft, kind eyes, their hands wrapped together and preferably naked. If he closes his eyes he can see it all, see the warm glow of the sun haloing Sylvain’s body, sees the stupid curtains and rug Sylvain will insist they get. 

“Felix!” Sylvain gently shakes his shoulder, “Did you fall asleep?”

Felix blinks his eyes open. “What?”

“Great, you’re still with us.” Sylvain presses a kiss to his forehead. “If you’re tired we can go home.”

He shakes his head no. “That’s not it. Sorry. I want to stay.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says before returning to the conversation.

The future is a lot to ask, and Felix is  _ drunk. _ It’s a lot to plan for, a lot to talk about, a lot to visualize without drifting off into dreams. But it’s beautiful, it’s perfect, and it’s  _ home. _

They’ll talk about it later. They’ll talk about cats and decor and family and home, and they’ll cross all that as they get there. 

Yes, it’s a lot to ask. It’s a lot of work. It’s a reward after years of study and struggle and understanding. It’s something they’ll talk about later and, if they’re lucky, it’s something they’ll plan for one day.

Later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW!!!!!!!!!! WE’RE DONE!
> 
> I. Wow! I started this fic just like, screwing around with the punchline of papa john gautier. It was gonna be a stupid one-shot and I’m usually very good at keeping things contained to one shots but this! Well! I think covid hit us all like a truck and idk about yall but this shit sucks! Anyway I hope this fic was able to brighten your time in quarantine!!!! I had fun writing it and escaping into a world where 1) i can go outside 2) I can be paired with a therapist that works for me and knows what I need on the first try
> 
> I would once again like to direct you all to [sunny’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnybone/pseuds/Sunnybone) fic [child support,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21363946/chapters/50888629) where sylvain’s cat impregnates felix’s cat and then they kiss. Sunny let me yell in their DMs about this and has been so supportive and kind through the entire process. Thank u sunny!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> There were a handful of scenes I wanted to include in the epilogue that just didn’t flow right so I decided to remove them. I’m adding this fic to a series and I might end up writing those scenes later — idk about yall but I want them to do dbt worksheets together
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Good Decisions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24388231) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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